N 
^UJfOKNtA 


presented  to  the 

LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  •  SAN  I)IK(,O 

by 
FRIENDS  OF  THE  LIBRARY 


Dr.  Roy  Harvey  Pearce 


donor 

* 


-T2 
A2 


DOROTHY    OSBORNE 


€  i 


LETTERS    FROM 
DOROTHY    OSBORNE 


TO 


SIR   WILLIAM    TEMPLE 

1652-54 


EDITED  BY 

EDWARD   ABBOTT  PARRY 

(Barrister-at-Law) 


NEW  AND  CHEAPER  EDITION  WITH  PORTRAITS 


loch.  Here  are  letters  for  you. 

Post.     Their  tenor  good,  I  trust? 
Inch.  'Tis  very  like. 

Cymbeline,  Act  ii.  Sc.  U. 


Printed   for  Dodd,  Mead,   &   Company, 
753  and  755  Broadway,  New  York, 

MDCCCLXXXIX. 


TO 

MY    DA  UGHTER 

HELEN 

THIS     VOLUME     IS     DEDICATED 
EXEMPLI     GRATIA 


EDITORIAL    NOTE. 


IT  having  been  noted  in  the  Athenczum,  June  9, 
1888,  that  rumours  were  afloat  doubting  the 
authenticity  of  these  letters,  and  that  these 
rumours  would  sink  to  rest  if  the  history  of  the 
originals  were  published,  I  hasten  to  adopt  my 
reviewer's  suggestion,  and  give  an  outline  of  their 
story.  They  are  at  present  in  the  hands  of  the 
Rev.  Robert  Longe  at  Coddenham  Vicarage, 
Suffolk,  where  they  have  been  for  the  last 
hundred  years.  At  Sir  William  Temple's  death 
in  1698,  he  left  no  other  descendants  than 
two  grand-daughters  —  Elizabeth  and  Dorothy. 
Elizabeth  died  without  issue  in  1772;  Dorothy 
married  Nicholas  Bacon,  Esq.  of  Shrubland  Hall 
in  the  parish  of  Coddenham.  Dorothy  left  a 
son,  the  Rev.  Nicholas  Bacon,  who  was  vicar  of 
Coddenham.  This  traces  the  letters  to  Codden- 


8  Preface. 

ham  Vicarage.  The  Rev.  Nicholas  Bacon  dying 
without  issue,  bequeathed  Coddenham  Vicarage, 
with  the  pictures  and  papers  therein,  to  the 
Rev.  John  Longe,  who  had  married  his  wife's 
sister.  The  Rev.  John  Longe,  who  died  in 
1835,  was  the  father  of  the  present  owner.  This 
satisfactorily  accounts  for  the  letters  being  in 
their  present  hands,  and  these  stated  facts  will, 
I  trust,  set  at  rest  the  fears  or  hopes  of  sceptics. 

EDWARD  ABBOTT  PARRY. 
MANCHESTER,  OCTOBER  1888. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAP.  PAGE 

I.  INTRODUCTION, n 

II.  EARLY  LETTERS.     Winter  and  Spring  1652-53,  ,         32 

III.  LIFE  AT  CHICKSANDS.     1653,     ....        62 

IV.  DESPONDENCY.     Christmas  1653,         .         .         .194 

V.  THE    LAST    OF    CHICKSANDS.       February    and 

March  1654,     .         .         .         .         .         .         .216 

VI.  VISITING.     Summer  1654,  .....       262 

VII.  THE  END  OF  THE  THIRD  VOLUME,    .         .         .       305 

APPENDIX — LADY  TEMPLE,         .         .        .        .310 

INDEX,        . 317 


The  two  Portraits  are  from  the  originals  by  Sir  Peter  Leiy,  in  the 
possession  of  Sir  George  Osborn,  Bart.,  of  Chicksands  Priory. 


CHAPTER     I. 

INTRODUCTION. 

"  AN  editor,"  says  Dr.  Johnson,  is  "  he  that  revises  or 
prepares  any  work  for  publication;"  and  this  definition  of 
an  editor's  duty  seems  wholly  right  and  satisfactory. 
But  now  that  the  revision  of  these  letters  is  apparently 
complete,  the  reader  has  some  right  to  expect  a  formal 
introduction  to  a  lady  whose  name  he  has,  in  all 
probability,  never  heard;  and  one  may  not  be  over- 
stepping the  modest  and  Johnsonian  limits  of  an  editor's 
office,  when  the  writing  of  a  short  introduction  is  included 
among  the  duties  of  preparation. 

Dorothy  Osborne  was  the  wife  of  the  famous  Sir 
William  Temple,  and  apology  for  her  biography  will 
be  found  in  her  own  letters,  here  for  the  first  time 
published.  Some  of  them  have  indeed  been  printed 
in  a  Life  of  Sir  William  Temple  by  the  Right 
Honourable  Thomas  Peregrine  Courtenay,  a  man  better 
known  to  the  Tory  politician  of  fifty  years  ago  than 
to  any  world  of  letters  in  that  day  or  this.  Forty- 
two  extracts  from  these  letters  did  Courtenay  transfer 
to  an  Appendix,  without  arrangement  or  any  form  of 
editing,  as  he  candidly  confesses ;  but  not  without  mis- 
givings as  to  how  they  would  be  received  by  a  people 
thirsting  to  read  the  details  of  the  negotiations  which 
took  place  in  connection  with  the  Triple  Alliance.  If 
Courtenay  lived  to  learn  that  the  world  had  other  things 
to  do  than  pore  over  dull  excerpts  from  inhuman  State 

papers,  we  may  pity  his  awakening ;  but  we  can  never 

11 


12  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

quite  forgive  the  apologetic  paragraph  with  which  he 
relegates  Dorothy  Osborne's  letters  to  the  mouldy 
obscurity  of  an  Appendix. 

When  Macaulay  was  reviewing  Courtenay's  book  in 
the  Edinburgh  Review,  he  took  occasion  to  write  a  short 
but  living  sketch  of  the  early  history  of  Sir  William 
Temple  and  Dorothy  Osborne.  And  with  this  account 
so  admirably  written,  ready  at  hand,  it  becomes  the 
clear  duty  of  the  Editor  to  quote  rather  than  to  rewrite  ; 
which  he  does  with  the  greater  pleasure,  remembering 
that  it  was  this  very  passage  that  first  led  him  to  read 
the  letters  of  Dorothy  Osborne. 

"William  Temple,  Sir  John's  eldest  son,  was  born  in 
London  in  the  year  1628.  He  received  his  early  educa- 
tion under  his  maternal  uncle,  was  subsequently  sent  to 
school  at  Bishop-Stortford,  and,  at  seventeen,  began  to 
reside  at  Emmanuel  College,  Cambridge,  where  the 
celebrated  Cudworth  was  his  tutor.  The  times  were  not 
favourable  to  study.  The  Civil  War  disturbed  even  the 
quiet  cloisters  and  bowling-greens  of  Cambridge,  pro- 
duced violent  revolutions  in  the  government  and  dis- 
cipline of  the  colleges,  and  unsettled  the  minds  of  the 
students.  Temple  forgot  at  Emmanuel  all  the  little 
Greek  which  he  had  brought  from  Bishop-Stortford,  and 
never  retrieved  the  loss;  a  circumstance  which  would 
hardly  be  worth  noticing  but  for  the  almost  incredible 
fact,  that  fifty  years  later  he  was  so  absurd  as  to  set  up 
his  own  authority  against  that  of  Bentley  on  questions  of 
Greek  history  and  philology.  He  made  no  proficiency, 
either  in  the  old  philosophy  which  still  lingered  in  the 
schools  of  Cambridge,  or  in  the  new  philosophy  of  which 
Lord  Bacon  was  the  founder.  But  to  the  end  of  his  life 
he  continued  to  speak  of  the  former  with  ignorant 
admiration,  and  of  the  latter  with  equally  ignorant 
contempt. 

"  After  residing  at  Cambridge  two  years,  he  departed 
without  taking  a  degree,  and  set  out  upon  his  travels. 


Introduction.  1 3 

He  seems  to  have  been  then  a  lively,  agreeable  young 
man  of  fashion,  not  by  any  means  deeply  read,  but 
versed  in  all  the  superficial  accomplishments  of  a 
gentleman,  and  acceptable  in  all  polite  societies.  In 
politics  he  professed  himself  a  Royalist.  His  opinions 
on  -religious  subjects  seem  to  have  been  such  as  might 
be  expected  from  a  young  man  of  quick  parts,  who  had 
received  a  rambling  education,  who  had  not  thought 
deeply,  who  had  been  disgusted  by  the  morose  austerity 
of  the  Puritans,  and  who,  surrounded  from  childhood  by 
the  hubbub  of  conflicting  sects,  might  easily  learn  to 
feel  an  impartial  contempt  for  them  all. 

"  On  his  road  to  France  he  fell  in  with  the  son  and 
daughter  of  Sir  Peter  Osborne.  Sir  Peter  held  Guernsey 
for  the  King,  and  the  young  people  were,  like  their 
father,  warm  for  the  Royal  cause.  At  an  inn  where  they 
stopped  in  the  Isle  of  Wight,  the  brother  amused  himself 
with  inscribing  on  the  windows  his  opinion  of  the  ruling 
powers.  For  this  instance  of  malignancy  the  whole  party 
were  arrested,  and  brought  before  the  Governor.  The 
sister,  trusting  to  the  tenderness  which,  even  in  those 
troubled  times,  scarcely  any  gentleman  of  any  party  ever 
failed  to  show  where  a  woman  was  concerned,  took  the 
crime  on  herself,  and  was  immediately  set  at  liberty 
with  her  fellow-travellers. 

"  This  incident,  as  was  natural,  made  a  deep  impression 
on  Temple.  He  was  only  twenty.  Dorothy  Osborne 
was  twenty-one.  She  is  said  to  have  been  handsome  ; 
and  there  remains  abundant  proof  that  she  possessed 
an  ample  share  of  the  dexterity,  the  vivacity,  and  the 
tenderness  of  her  sex.  Temple  soon  became,  in  the 
phrase  of  that  time,  her  servant,  and  she  returned  his 
regard.  But  difficulties,  as  great  as  ever  expanded  a 
novel  to  the  fifth  volume,  opposed  their  wishes.  When 
the  courtship  commenced,  the  father  of  the  hero  was 
sitting  in  the  Long  Parliament ;  the  father  of  the 
heroine  was  commanding  in  Guernsey  for  King  Charles. 


14  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

Even  when  the  war  ended,  and  Sir  Peter  Osborne 
returned  to  his  seat  at  Chicksands,  the  prospects  of 
the  lovers  were  scarcely  less  gloomy.  Sir  John  Temple 
had  a  more  advantageous  alliance  in  view  for  his  son. 
Dorothy  Osborne  was  in  the  meantime  besieged  by  as 
many  suitors  as  were  drawn  to  Belmont  by  the  fame 
of  Portia.  The  most  distinguished  on  the  list  was 
Henry  Cromwell.  Destitute  of  the  capacity,  the  energy, 
the  magnanimity  of  his  illustrious  father,  destitute  also 
of  the  meek  and  placid  virtues  of  his  elder  brother, 
this  young  man  was  perhaps  a  more  formidable  rival 
in  love  than  either  of  them  would  have  been.  Mrs. 
Hutchinson,  speaking  the  sentiments  of  the  grave 
and  aged,  describes  him  as  an  '  insolent  foole,'  and 
a  'debauched  ungodly  cavalier.'  These  expressions 
probably  mean  that  he  was  one  who,  among  young 
and  dissipated  people,  would  pass  for  a  fine  gentle- 
man. Dorothy  was  fond  of  dogs,  of  larger  and  more 
formidable  breed  than  those  which  lie  on  modern 
hearthrugs ;  and  Henry  Cromwell  promised  that  the 
highest  functionaries  at  Dublin  should  be  set  to  work  to 
procure  her  a  fine  Irish  greyhound.  She  seems  to  have 
felt  his  attentions  as  very  flattering,  though  his  father 
was  then  only  Lord  General,  and  not  yet  Protector. 
Love,  however,  triumphed  over  ambition,  and  the 
young  lady  appears  never  to  have  regretted  her 
decision ;  though,  in  a  letter  written  just  at  the  time 
when  all  England  was  ringing  with  the  news  of  the 
violent  dissolution  of  the  Long  Parliament,  she  could 
not  refrain  from  reminding  Temple  with  pardonable 
vanity,  '  how  great  she  might  have  been,  if  she  had 
been  so  wise  as  to  have  taken  hold  of  the  offer  of 
H.  C.' 

"Nor  was  it  only  the  influence  of  rivals  that  Temple 
had  to  dread.  The  relations  of  his  mistress  regarded 
him  with  personal  dislike,  and  spoke  of  him  as  an  un- 
principled adventurer,  without  honour  or  religion,  ready 


Introduction.  1 5 

to  render  service  to  any  party  for  the  sake  of  prefer- 
ment. This  is,  indeed,  a  very  distorted  view  of  Temple's 
character.  Yet  a  character,  even  in  the  most  distorted 
view  taken  of  it  by  the  most  angry  and  prejudiced 
minds,  generally  retains  something  of  its  outline.  No 
caricaturist  ever  represented  Mr.  Pitt  as  a  Falstaff,  or 
Mr.  Fox  as  a  skeleton  ;  nor  did  any  libeller  ever  impute 
parsimony  to  Sheridan,  or  profusion  to  Marlborough. 
It  must  be  allowed  that  the  turn  of  mind  which  the 
eulogists  of  Temple  have  dignified  with  the  appellation 
of  philosophical  indifference,  and  which,  however  becom- 
ing it  may  be  in  an  old  and  experienced  statesman,  has 
a  somewhat  ungraceful  appearance  in  youth,  might 
easily  appear  shocking  to  a  family  who  were  ready  to 
fight  or  to  suffer  martyrdom  for  their  exiled  King  and 
their  persecuted  Church.  The  poor  girl  was  exceed- 
ingly hurt  and  irritated  by  these  imputations  on  her 
lover,  defended  him  warmly  behind  his  back,  and 
addressed  to  himself  some  very  tender  and  anxious 
admonitions,  mingled  with  assurances  of  her  confidence 
in  his  honour  and  virtue.  On  one  occasion  she  was 
most  highly  provoked  by  the  way  in  which  one  of  her 
brothers  spoke  of  Temple.  '  We  talked  ourselves 
weary,'  she  says  ;  '  he  renounced  me,  and  I  defied  him.' 
"  Near  seven  years  did  this  arduous  wooing  continue. 
We  are  not  accurately  informed  respecting  Temple's 
movements  during  that  time.  But  he  seems  to  have 
led  a  rambling  life,  sometimes  on  the  Continent,  some- 
times in  Ireland,  sometimes  in  London.  He  made 
himself  master  of  the  French  and  Spanish  languages, 
and  amused  himself  by  writing  essays  and  romances, 
an  employment  which  at  least  served  the  purpose  of 
forming  his  style.  The  specimen  which  Mr.  Courtenay 
has  preserved  of  these  early  compositions  is  by  no 
means  contemptible  :  indeed,  there  is  one  passage  on 
Like  and  Dislike,  which  could  have  been  produced  only 
by  a  mind  habituated  carefully  to  reflect  on  its  own 


1 6  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osbornc. 

operations,  and  which  reminds  us  of  the  best  things  in 
Montaigne. 

"  Temple  appears  to  have  kept  up  a  very  active  corre- 
spondence with  his  mistress.  His  letters  are  lost,  but 
hers  have  been  preserved  ;  and  many  of  them  appear  in 
these  volumes.  Mr.  Courtenay  expresses  some  doubt 
whether  his  readers  will  think  him  justified  in  inserting 
so  large  a  number  of  these  epistles.  We  only  wish  that 
there  were  twice  as  many.  Very  little  indeed  of  the 
diplomatic  correspondence  of  that  generation  is  so  well 
worth  reading." 

Here  Macaulay  indulges  in  an  eloquent  but  lengthy 
philippic  against  that  "  vile  phrase "  the  "  dignity  of 
history,"  which  we  may  omit, — taking  up  the  thread  of 
his  discourse  where  he  recurs  to  the  affairs  of  our  two 
lovers.  "  Thinking  thus," — concerning  the  "  dignity  of 
history," — "we  are  glad  to  learn  so  much,  and  would 
willingly  learn  more  about  the  loves  of  Sir  William  and 
his  mistress.  In  the  seventeenth  century,  to  be  sure, 
Louis  the  Fourteenth  was  a  much  more  important 
person  than  Temple's  sweetheart.  But  death  and  time 
equalize  all  things.  Neither  the  great  King  nor  the 
beauty  of  Bedfordshire,  neither  the  gorgeous  paradise 
of  Marli  nor  Mistress  Osborne's  favourite  walk  '  in  the 
common  that  lay  hard  by  the  house,  where  a  great 
many  young  wenches  used  to  keep  sheep  and  cows  and 
sit  in  the  shade  singing  of  ballads,'  is  anything  to  us. 
Louis  and  Dorothy  are  alike  dust.  A  cotton-mill  stands 
on  the  ruins  of  Marli ;  and  the  Osbornes  have  ceased  to 
dwell  under  the  ancient  roof  of  Chicksands.  But  of 
that  information,  for  the  sake  of  which  alone  it  is  worth 
while  to  study  remote  events,  we  find  so  much  in  the 
love  letters  which  Mr.  Courtenay  has  published,  that 
we  would  gladly  purchase  equally  interesting  billets 
with  ten  times  their  weight  in  State  papers  taken  at 
random.  To  us  surely  it  is  as  useful  to  know  how  the 
young  ladies  of  England  employed  themselves  a 


Introduction.  1 7 

hundred  and  eighty  years  ago,  how  far  their  minds 
were  cultivated,  what  were  their  favourite  studies,  what 
degree  of  liberty  was  allowed  to  them,  what  use  they 
made  of  that  liberty,  what  accomplishments  they  most 
valued  in  men,  and  what  proofs  of  tenderness  delicacy 
permitted  them  to  give  to  favoured  suitors,  as  to  know 
all  about  the  seizure  of  Franche-Comte'  and  the  Treaty 
of  Nimeguen.  The  mutual  relations  of  the  two  sexes 
seem  to  us  to  be  at  least  as  important  as  the  mutual 
relations  of  any  two  Governments  in  the  world  ;  and  a 
series  of  letters  written  by  a  virtuous,  amiable,  and 
sensible  girl,  and  intended  for  the  eye  of  her  lover  alone, 
can  scarcely  fail  to  throw  some  light  on  the  relations  of 
the  sexes  ;  whereas  it  is  perfectly  possible,  as  all  who 
have  made  any  historical  researches  can  attest,  to  read 
bale  after  bale  of  despatches  and  protocols,  without 
catching  one  glimpse  of  light  about  the  relations  of 
Governments. 

"  Mr.  Courtenay  proclaims  that  he  is  one  of  Dorothy 
Osborne's  devoted  servants,  and  expresses  a  hope  that 
the  publication  of  her  letters  will  add  to  the  number. 
We  must  declare  ourselves  his  rivals.  She  really  seems 
to  have  been  a  very  charming  young  woman,  modest, 
generous,  affectionate,  intelligent,  and  sprightly ;  a 
Royalist,  as  was  to  be  expected  from  her  connections, 
without  any  of  that  political  asperity  which  is  as  un- 
womanly as  a  long  beard  ;  religious,  and  occasionally 
gliding  into  a  very  pretty  and  endearing  sort  of  preach- 
ing, yet  not  too  good  to  partake  of  such  diversions  as 
London  afforded  under  the  melancholy  rule  of  the 
Puritans,  or  to  giggle  a  little  at  a  ridiculous  sermon  from 
a  divine  who  was  thought  to  be  one  of  the  great  lights 
of  the  Assembly  at  Westminster ;  with  a  little  turn  for 
coquetry,  which  was  yet  perfectly  compatible  with  warm 
and  disinterested  attachment,  and  a  little  turn  for  satire, 
which  yet  seldom  passed  the  bounds  of  good  nature. 
She  loved  reading  ;  but  her  studies  were  not  those  of 

B 


1 8  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osbornc. 

Queen  Elizabeth  and  Lady  Jane  Grey.  She  read  the 
verses  of  Cowley  and  Lord  Broghill,  French  Memoirs 
recommended  by  her  lover,  and  the  Travels  of  Fernando 
Mendez  Pinto.  But  her  favourite  books  were  those 
ponderous  French  romances  which  modern  readers 
know  chiefly  from  the  pleasant  satire  of  Charlotte 
Lennox.  She  could  not,  however,  help  laughing  at  the 
vile  English  into  which  they  were  translated.  Her  own 
style  is  very  agreeable  ;  nor  are  her  letters  at  all  the  worse 
for  some  passages  in  which  raillery  and  tenderness  are 
mixed  in  a  very  engaging  namby-pamby. 

"When  at  last  the  constancy  of  the  lovers  had 
triumphed  over  all  the  obstacles  which  kinsmen  and 
rivals  could  oppose  to  their  union,  a  yet  more  serious 
calamity  befell  them.  Poor  Mistress  Osborne  fell  ill  of 
the  small-pox,  and,  though  she  escaped  with  life,  lost 
all  her  beauty.  To  this  most  severe  trial  the  affection 
and  honour  of  the  lovers  of  that  age  was  not  unfre- 
quently  subjected.  Our  readers  probably  remember 
what  Mrs.  Hutchinson  tells  us  of  herself.  The  lofty 
Cornelia-like  spirit  of  the  aged  matron  seems  to  melt 
into  a  long  forgotten  softness  when  she  relates  how  her 
beloved  Colonel  '  married  her  as  soon  as  she  was  able 
to  quit  the  chamber,  when  the  priest  and  all  that  saw 
her  were  affrighted  to  look  on  her.  But  God,'  she 
adds,  with  a  not  ungraceful  vanity,  '  recompensed  his 
justice  and  constancy  by  restoring  her  as  well  as  before.' 
Temple  showed  on  this  occasion  the  same  justice  and 
constancy  which  did  so  much  honour  to  Colonel 
Hutchinson.  The  date  of  the  marriage  is  not  exactly 
known,  but  Mr.  Courtenay  supposes  it  to  have  taken 
place  about  the  end  of  the  year  1654.  From  this  time  we 
lose  sight  of  Dorothy,  and  are  reduced  to  form  our  opinion 
of  the  terms  on  which  she  and  her  husband  were  from 
very  slight  indications  which  may  easily  mislead  us." 

When  an  editor  is  in  the  pleasant  position  of  being 
able  to  retain  an  historian  of  the  eminence  of  Macaulay 


Introduction.  1 9 

to  write  a  large  portion  of  his  introduction,  it  would 
ill  become  him  to  alter  and  correct  his  statements 
wherever  there  was  a  petty  inaccuracy ;  still  it  is  neces- 
sary to  say,  once  for  all,  that  there  are  occasional  errors 
in  the  passage,  —  as  where  Macaulay  mentions  that 
Chicksands  is  no  longer  the  property  of  the  Osbornes, 
— though  happily  not  one  of  these  errors  is  in  itself 
important.  To  our  thinking,  too,  in  the  character  that 
he  draws  of  our  heroine,  Macaulay  hardly  appears  to  be 
sufficiently  aware  of  the  sympathetic  womanly  nature  of 
Dorothy,  and  the  dignity  of  her  disposition  ;  so  that  he 
is  persuaded  to  speak  of  her  too  constantly  from  the 
position  of  a  man  of  the  world  praising  with  patronizing 
emphasis  the  pretty  qualities  of  a  school-girl.  But  we 
must  remember,  that  in  forming  our  estimate  of  her 
character,  we  have  an  extended  series  of  letters  before 
us ;  and  from  these  the  reader  can  draw  his  own  conclu- 
sions as  to  the  accuracy  of  Macaulay's  description,  and 
the  importance  of  Dorothy's  character. 

It  was  this  passage  from  Macaulay  that  led  the 
Editor  to  Courtenay's  Appendix,  and  it  was  the  literary 
and  human  charm  of  the  letters  themselves  that 
suggested  the  idea  of  stringing  them  together  into  a 
connected  story  or  sketch  of  the  love  affairs  of  Dorothy 
Osborne.  This  was  published  in  April  1886  in  the 
English  Illustrated  Magazine,  and  happened,  by  good 
luck,  to  fall  into  the  hands  of  an  admirer  of  Dorothy, 
who,  having  had  access  to  the  original  letters,  had  made 
faithful  and  loving  copies  of  each  one, — accurate  even 
to  the  old-world  spelling.  These  labours  had  been 
followed  up  by  much  patient  research,  the  fruits  of 
which  were  now  to  be  generously  offered  to  the  present 
Editor  on  condition  that  he  would  prepare  the  letters  for 
the  press.  The  owner  of  the  letters  having  courteously 
expressed  his  acquiescence,  nothing  remained  but  to 
give  to  the  task  that  patient  care  that  it  is  easy  to  give 
to  a  labour  of  love. 


2O  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

A  few  words  of  explanation  as  to  the  arrangement  of 
the  letters.  Although  few  of  them  were  dated,  it  was 
found  possible,  by  minute  analysis  of  their  contents,  to 
place  them  in  approximately  correct  order ;  and  if  one 
could  not  date  each  letter,  one  could  at  least  assign 
groups  of  letters  to  specific  months  or  seasons  of  the 
year.  The  fact  that  New  Year's  day  was  at  this  period 
March  25 — a  fact  sometimes  ignored  by  antiquarians 
of  high  repute — adds  greatly  to  the  difficulty  of  ascer- 
taining exact  dates,  and  as  an  instance  of  this  we 
find  in  different  chronicles  of  authority  Sir  Peter 
Osborne's  death  correctly,  yet  differently,  given  as 
happening  in  March  1653  and  March  1654.  Through- 
out this  volume  the  ordinary  New  Year's  day  has  been 
retained.  The  further  revision  and  preparation  that  the 
letters  have  undergone  is  shortly  this.  The  spelling  has 
been  modernized,  the  letters  punctuated  and  arranged 
in  paragraphs,  and  names  indicated  by  initials  have 
been,  wherever  it  was  possible,  written  in  full.  A  note 
has  been  prefixed  to  each  letter,  printed  in  smaller  type 
than  the  letter  itself,  and  dealing  with  all  the  allusions 
contained  in  it.  This  system  is  very  fit  to  be  applied 
to  Dorothy's  letters,  because,  by  its  use,  Dorothy  is 
left  to  tell  her  own  story  without  the  constant  and 
irritating  references  to  footnotes  or  Appendix  notes 
that  other  arrangements  necessitate.  The  Editor  has 
a  holy  horror  of  the  footnote,  and  would  have  it 
relegated  to  those  "  biblia  a-biblia"  from  which  class  he 
is  sure  Elia  would  cheerfully  except  Dorothy's  letters. 
In  the  notes  themselves  the  endeavour  has  been  to 
obtain,  where  it  was  possible,  parallel  references  to 
letters,  diaries,  or  memoirs,  and  the  Editor  can  only 
regret  that  his  researches,  through  both  MSS.  and  printed 
records,  have  been  so  little  successful.  In  the  case 
of  well-known  men  like  Algernon  Sydney,  Lord  Man- 
chester, Edmund  Waller,  etc.,  no  attempt  has  been  made 
to  write  a  complete  note, — their  lives  and  works  being 


Introduction.  2 1 

sufficiently  well  known  ;  but  in  the  case  of  more  obscure 
persons, — as,  for  instance,  Dorothy's  brother-in-law,  Sir 
Thomas  Peyton, — all  the  known  details  of  their  history 
have  been  carefully  collected.  Yet  in  spite  of  patience, 
toil,  and  the  kindness  of  learned  friends,  the  Editor  is 
bound  to  acknowledge  that  some  names  remain  mere 
words  to  him,  and  but  too  many  allusions  are  mysteriously 
dim. 

The  division  of  the  letters  into  chapters,  at  first  sight 
an  arbitrary  arrangement,  really  follows  their  natural 
grouping.  The  letters  were  written  in  the  years  1653 
and  1654,  and  form  a  clear  and  connected  story  of  the 
love  affairs  of  the  young  couple  during  that  time.  The 
most  important  group  of  letters,  both  from  the  number 
of  letters  contained  in  it  and  the  contents  of  the  letters 
themselves,  is  that  entitled  "Life  at  Chicksands,  1653." 
The  Editor  regards  this  group  as  the  very  mainland  of 
the  epistolary  archipelago  that  we  are  exploring.  For 
it  is  in  this  chapter  that  a  clear  idea  of  the  domestic 
social  life  of  these  troublous  times  is  obtainable,  none 
the  less  valuable  in  that  it  does  not  tally  altogether 
with  our  preconceived  and  too  romantic  notions.  Here, 
too,  we  find  what  Macaulay  longed  for — those  social 
domestic  trivialities  which  the  historians  have  at  length 
begun  to  value  rightly.  Here  are,  indeed,  many  things 
of  no  value  to  Dryasdust  and  his  friends,  but  of 
moment  to  us,  who  look  for  and  find  true  details  of  life 
and  character  in  nearly  every  line.  And  above  all 
things,  here  is  a  living  presentment  of  a  beautiful 
woman,  pure  in  dissolute  days,  passing  quiet  hours  of 
domestic  life  amongst  her  own  family,  where  we  may 
all  visit  her  and  hear  her  voice,  even  in  the  very  tones  in 
which  she  spoke  to  her  lover. 

And  now  the  Editor  feels  he  must  augment  Macaulay's 
sketch  of  Dorothy  Osborne  with  some  account  of  the 
Osborne  family,  of  whom  it  consisted,  what  part  it  took 
in  the  struggle  of  the  day,  and  what  was  the  past 


22  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

position  of  Dorothy's  ancestors.  All  that  can  be 
promised  is,  that  such  account  shall  be  as  concise  as 
may  be  consistent  with  clearness  and  accuracy,  and 
that  it  shall  contain  nothing  but  ascertained  facts. 

There  were  Osbornes — before  there  were  Osbornes 
of  Chicksands — who,  coming  out  of  the  north,  settled 
at  Purleigh  in  Essex,  where  we  find  them  in  the  year 
1442.  From  this  date,  passing  lightly  over  a  hundred 
troubled  years,  we  find  Peter  Osborne,  Dorothy's  great- 
grandfather, born  in  1521.  He  was  Keeper  of  the 
Purse  to  Edward  VI.,  and  was  twice  married,  his  second 
wife  being  Alice,  sister  of  Sir  John  Cheke,  a  family  we 
read  of  in  Dorothy's  letters.  One  of  his  daughters, 
named  Catharine, — he  had  a  well-balanced  family  of 
eleven  sons  and  eleven  daughters, — afterwards  married 
Sir  Thomas  Cheke.  Peter  Osborne  died  in  1 592  ;  and 
Sir  John  Osborne,  Peter's  son  and  Dorothy's  grand- 
father, was  the  first  Osborne  of  Chicksands.  It  was 
he  who  settled  at  Chicksands,  in  Bedfordshire,  and 
purchased  the  neighbouring  rectory  at  Hawnes,  to 
restore  it  to  that  Church  of  which  he  and  his  family 
were  in  truth  militant  members  ;  and  having  generously 
built  and  furnished  a  parsonage  house,  he  presented 
it  in  the  first  place  to  the  celebrated  preacher  Thomas 
Brightman,  who  died  there  in  1607.  It  is  this  rectory 
that  in  1653-54  ls  m  tne  hands  of  the  Rev.  Edward 
Gibson,  who  appears  from  time  to  time  in  Dorothy's 
letters,  and  who  was  on  occasions  the  medium  through 
which  Temple's  letters  reached  their  destination,  and 
avoided  falling  into  the  hands  of  Dorothy's  jealous 
brother.  Sir  John  Osborne  married  Dorothy  Barlee, 
grand-daughter  of  Richard  Lord  Rich,  Lord  Chancellor 
of  England  in  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII.  Sir  John  was 
Treasurer's  Remembrancer  in  the  Exchequer  for  many 
years  during  the  reign  of  James  I.,  and  was  also  a 
Commissioner  of  the  Navy.  He  died  November  2,  1628, 
and  was  buried  in  Campton  Church, — Chicksands  lies 


Introduction.  23 

between  the  village  of  Hawnes  and  Campton, — where  a 
tablet  to  his  memory  still  exists. 

Sir  John  had  five  sons :  Peter,  the  eldest,  Dorothy's 
father,  who  succeeded  him  in  his  hereditary  office 
of  Treasurer's  Remembrancer ;  Christopher,  Thomas, 
Richard,  and  Francis, — Francis  Osborne  may  be  men- 
tioned as  having  taken  the  side  of  the  Parliament  in  the 
Civil  Wars.  He  was  Master  of  the  Horse  to  the  Earl 
of  Pembroke,  and  is  noticeable  to  us  as  the  only  known 
relation  of  Dorothy  who  published  a  book.  He  was  the 
author  of  an  Advice  to  his  Son,  in  two  parts,  and  some 
tracts  published  in  1722,  of  course  long  after  his  death. 

Of  Sir  Peter  himself  we  had  at  one  time  thought  to 
write  at  some  length.  The  narrative  of  his  defence  of 
Castle  Cornet  for  the  King,  embodied  in  his  own  letters, 
in  the  letters  and  papers  of  George  Carteret,  Governor 
of  Jersey,  in  the  detailed  account  left  behind  by  a 
native  of  Guernsey,  and  in  the  State  papers  of  the 
period,  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  episodes  in  an 
epoch  of  episodes.  But  though  the  collected  material 
for  some  short  life  of  Sir  Peter  Osborne  lies  at  hand,  it 
seems  scarcely  necessary  for  the  purpose  of  this  book, 
and  so  not  without  reluctance  it  is  set  aside. 

Sir  Peter  was  an  ardent  loyalist.  In  his  obstinate 
flesh  and  blood  devotion  to  the  house  of  Stuart  he  was 
as  sincere  and  thorough  as  Sir  Henry  Lee,  Sir  Geoffrey 
Peveril,  or  Kentish  Sir  Byng.  He  was  the  incarnation 
of  the  malignant  of  latter-day  fiction. 

"  King  Charles,  and  who'll  do  him  right  now? 
King  Charles,  and  who's  ripe  for  fight  now? 
Give  a  rouse ;  here's  in  hell's  despite  now, 
King  Charles." 

To  this  text  his  life  wrote  the  comment. 

In  1621,  James  I.  created  him  Lieutenant-Governor 
of  Guernsey.  He  had  married  Dorothy,  sister  of  Sir 
John  Danvers.  Sir  John  was  the  younger  brother  and 


24  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

heir  to  the  Earl  of  Danby,  and  was  a  Gentleman  of  the 
Privy  Chamber  to  the  King.  Clarendon  tells  us  that  he 
got  into  debt,  and  to  get  out  of  debt  found  himself  in 
Cromwell's  counsel ;  that  he  was  a  proud,  formal,  weak 
man,  between  being  seduced  and  a  seducer,  and  that  he 
took  it  to  be  a  high  honour  to  sit  on  the  same  bench 
with  Cromwell,  who  employed  him  and  contemned  him 
at  once.  The  Earl  of  Danby  was  the  Governor  of 
Guernsey,  and  Sir  Peter  was  his  lieutenant  until  1643, 
when  the  Earl  died,  and  Sir  Peter  was  made  full 
Governor.  It  would  be  in  1643  that  the  siege  of  Castle 
Cornet  began,  the  same  year  in  which  the  rents  of  the 
Chicksands  estate  were  assigned  away  from  their  right- 
ful owner  to  one  Mr.  John  Blackstone,  M.P.  Sir  Peter 
was  in  his  stronghold  on  a  rock  in  the  sea  ;  he  was  for 
the  King.  The  inhabitants  of  the  island,  more  com- 
fortably situated,  were  a  united  party  for  the  Parliament. 
Thus  they  remained  for  three  years ;  the  King  writing 
to  Sir  Peter  to  reduce  the  inhabitants  to  a  state  of 
reason;  the  Parliament  sending  instructions  to  the 
jurats  of  Guernsey  to  seize  the  person  of  Sir  Peter;  and 
the  Earl  of  Warwick,  prompted,  we  should  suppose,  by 
Sir  John  Danvers,  offering  terms  to  Sir  Peter  which 
he  indignantly  rejected.  Meanwhile  Lady  Osborne 
— Dorothy  with  her,  in  all  probability — was  doing 
her  best  to  victual  the  castle  from  the  mainland, 
she  living  at  St.  Malo  during  the  siege.  At  length, 
her  money  all  spent,  her  health  broken  down,  she 
returned  to  England,  and  was  lost  to  sight.  Sir 
Peter  himself  heard  nothing  of  her,  and  her  sons  in 
England,  who  were  doing  all  they  could  for  their 
father  among  the  King's  friends,  did  not  know  of  her 
whereabouts. 

In  1646  he  resigned  his  command.  He  was  weary 
and  heavy  laden  with  unjust  burdens  heaped  on  him  by 
those  for  whom  and  with  whom  he  was  fighting;  he  was 
worn  out  by  the  siege ;  by  the  characteristic  treachery 


Introduction.  25 

of  the  King,  who,  being  unable  to  assist  him,  could  not 
refrain  from  sending  lying  promises  instead  ;  and  by 
the  malice  of  his  neighbour,  George  Carteret,  Governor 
of  Jersey,  who  himself  made  free  with  the  Guernsey 
supplies,  while  writing  home  to  the  King  that  Sir  Peter 
has  betrayed  his  trust.  Betrayed  his  trust,  indeed,  when 
he  and  his  garrison  are  reduced  to  "  one  biscuit  a  day 
and  a  little  porrage  for  supper,"  together  with  limpets 
and  herbs  in  the  best  mess  they  can  make ;  nay,  more, 
when  they  have  pulled  up  their  floors  for  firewood,  and 
are  dying  of  hunger  and  want  in  the  stone  shell  of 
Castle  Cornet  for  the  love  of  their  King.  However,  cir- 
cumstances and  Sir  George  Carteret  were  too  much  for 
him,  and,  at  the  request  of  Prince  Charles,  he  resigned 
his  command  to  Sir  Baldwin  Wake  in  May  1646, 
remaining  three  years  after  this  date  at  St.  Malo,  where 
he  did  what  he  was  able  to  supply  the  wants  of  the 
castle.  Sir  Baldwin  surrendered  the  castle  to  Blake 
in  1650.  It  was  the  last  fortress  to  surrender. 

In  1649  Sir  Peter,  finding  the  promises  of  reward 
made  by  the  Prince  to  be  as  sincere  as  those  of  his 
father,  returned  to  England,  and  probably  through  the 
intervention  of  his  father-in-law,  who  was  a  strict  Par- 
liament man,  his  house  and  a  portion  of  his  estates  at 
Chicksands  were  restored  to  him.  To  these  he  retired, 
disappointed  in  spirit,  feeble  in  health,  soon  to  be  bereft 
of  the  company  of  his  wife,  who  died  towards  the  end 
of  1650,  and,  but  for  the  constant  ministering  of  his 
daughter  Dorothy,  living  lonely  and  forgotten,  to  see 
the  cause  for  which  he  had  fought  discredited  and  dead. 
He  died  in  March  1654,  after  a  long,  weary  illness. 
The  parish  register  of  Campton  describes  him  as  "  a 
friend  to  the  poor,  a  lover  of  learning,  a  maintainer  of 
divine  exercises."  There  is  still  an  inscription  to  his 
memory  on  a  marble  monument  on  the  north  side  of 
the  chancel  in  Campton  church. 

Sir  Peter  had  seven  sons  and  five  daughters.     There 


26  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

were  only  three  sons  living  in  1653;  the  others  died 
young,  one  laying  down  his  life  for  the  King  at  Hart- 
land  in  Devonshire,  in  some  skirmish,  we  must  now 
suppose,  of  which  no  trace  remains.  Of  those  living,  Sir 
John,  the  eldest  son  and  the  first  baronet,  married  his 
cousin  Eleanor  Danvers,  and  lived  in  Gloucestershire 
during  his  father's  life.  Henry,  afterwards  knighted,  was 
probably  the  jealous  brother  who  lived  at  Chicksands 
with  Dorothy  and  her  father,  with  whom  she  had  many 
skirmishes,  and  who  wished  in  his  kind  fraternal  way 
to  see  his  sister  well  —  that  is  to  say,  wealthily — 
married.  Robert  is  a  younger  brother,  a  year  older 
than  Dorothy,  who  died  in  September  1653,  and  who 
did  not  apparently  live  at  Chicksands.  Dorothy  her- 
self was  born  .in  1627  ;  where,  it  is  impossible  to  say. 
Sir  Peter  was  presumably  at  Castle  Cornet  at  that  date, 
but  it  is  doubtful  if  Lady  Osborne  ever  stayed  there, 
the  accommodation  within  its  walls  being  straitened 
and  primitive  even  for  that  day.  Dorothy  was  probably 
born  in  England,  maybe  at  Chicksands.  Her  other 
sisters  had  married  and  settled  in  various  parts  of 
England  before  1653.  Her  eldest  sister  (not  Anne,  as 
Wotton  conjectures)  married  one  Sir  Thomas  Peyton, 
a  Kentish  Royalist  of  some  note.  What  little  could  be 
gleaned  of  his  actions  from  amongst  Kentish  antiquities 
and  history,  and  such  letters  of  his  as  lie  entombed  in 
the  MSS.  of  the  British  Museum,  is  set  down  hereafter. 
He  appears  to  have  acted,  after  her  father's  death,  as 
Dorothy's  guardian,  and  his  name  occurs  more  than 
once  in  the  pages  of  her  letters. 

So  much  for  the  Osbornes  of  Chicksands ;  an 
obstinate,  sturdy,  quick-witted  race  of  Cavaliers  ;  linked 
by  marriage  to  the  great  families  of  the  land  ;  aristocrats 
in  blood  and  in  spirit,  of  whom  Dorothy  was  a  worthy 
descendant.  Let  us  try  now  and  picture  for  ourselves 
their  home.  Chixon,  Chikesonds,  or  Chicksands  Priory, 
Bedfordshire,  as  it  now  stands, — what  a  pleasing  various 


Introduction.  2  7 

art  was  spelling  in  olden  time, — was,  in  the  reign  of 
Edward  III.,  a  nunnery,  situated  then,  as  now,  on  a 
slight  eminence,  with  gently  rising  hills  at  a  short  dis- 
tance behind,  and  a  brook  running  to  join  the  river  Ivel, 
thence  the  German  Ocean,  along  the  valley  in  front  of 
the  house.  The  neighbouring  scenery  of  Bedfordshire 
is  on  a  humble  scale,  and  concerns  very  little  those  who 
do  not  frequent  it  and  live  among  it,  as  we  must  do  for 
the  next  year  or  more. 

The  Priory  is  a  low-built  sacro-secular  edifice,  well 
fitted  for  its  former  service.  Its  priestly  denizens  were 
turned  out  in  Henry  VIII.'s  monk -hunting  reign 
(1538).  To  the  joy  or  sorrow  of  the  neighbourhood, 
—  who  knows  now?  Granted  then  to  one  Richard 
Snow,  of  whom  the  records  are  silent ;  by  him  sold, 
in  Elizabeth's  reign,  to  Sir  John  Osborne,  Knt,  thus 
becoming  the  ancestral  home  of  our  Dorothy.  There 
is  a  crisp  etching  of  the  house  in  Fisher's  Collections 
of  Bedfordshire.  The  very  exterior  of  it  is  Catholic, 
unpuritanical ;  no  methodism  about  the  square  windows, 
set  here  and  there  at  undecided  intervals  wheresoever 
they  may  be  wanted.  Six  attic  windows  jut  out  from 
the  low -tiled  roof.  At  the  corner  of  the  house  is  a 
high  pinnacled  buttress  rising  the  full  height  of  the 
wall ;  five  buttresses  flank  the  side  wall,  built  so  that 
they  shade  the  lower  windows  from  the  morning  sun, 
— in  one  place  reaching  to  the  sill  of  an  upper  window. 
At  the  further  end  of  the  wall  are  two  Gothic  windows, 
claustral  remnants,  lighting  now  perhaps  the  dining- 
hall  where  cousin  Molle  and  Dorothy  sat  in  state,  or 
the  saloon  where  the  latter  received  her  servants. 
There  are  still  cloisters  attached  to  the  house,  at  the 
other  side  of  it  maybe.  Yes,  a  sleepy  country  house, 
the  warm  earth  and  her  shrubs  creeping  close  up  to 
the  very  sills  of  the  lower  windows,  sending  in  morning 
fragrance,  I  doubt  not,  when  Dorothy  thrust  back  the 
lattice  after  breakfast.  A  quiet  place, — "slow"  is  the 


28  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

accurate  modern  epithet  for  it— "awfully  slow;"  but 
to  Dorothy  a  quite  suitable  home,  at  which  she  never 
repines. 

This  etching  by  Thomas  Fisher,  of  December  26, 
1816,  is  the  more  valuable  to  us  since  the  old  Chick- 
sands  Priory  no  longer  remains,  having  suffered  martyr- 
dom at  the  bloody  hands  of  the  restorer.  For  through 
this  partly  we  have  attained  to  a  knowledge  of 
Dorothy's  surroundings ;  and  through  the  baronetages, 
peerages,  and  the  invincible  heaps  of  genealogical  records, 
we  have  gathered  some  few  actual  facts  necessary  to  be 
known  of  Dorothy's  relations,  her  human  surroundings, 
their  lives  and  actions.  And  we  shall  not  find  ourselves 
following  Dorothy's  story  with  the  less  interest  that  we 
have  mastered  these  details  about  the  Osbornes  of 
Chicksands. 

Temple,  too,  claims  the  consideration  at  our  hands  of 
a  few  words  concerning  his  near  relatives  and  their  posi- 
tion in  the  country.  As  Macaulay  tells  us,  he  was  born 
in  1628,  the  place  of  his  birth  being  Blackfriars  in 
London. 

Sir  John  Temple,  his  father,  was  Master  of  the  Rolls 
and  a  Privy  Councillor  in  Ireland;  he  was  in  the  confi- 
dence of  Robert  Sidney,  Earl  of  Leicester,  the  Lord- 
Lieutenant  of  Ireland.  Algernon  Sydney,  the  Earl's 
son,  was  well  known  to  Temple,  and  perhaps  to  Dorothy. 
Sir  John  Temple,  like  his  son  in  after  life,  refused  to 
look  on  politics  as  a  game  in  which  it  was  always 
advisable  to  play  on  the  winning  side,  and  thus  we 
find  him  opposing  the  Duke  of  Ormond  in  Ireland  in 
1643,  and  suffering  imprisonment  as  a  partisan  of  the 
Parliament.  In  England,  in  1648,  when  he  was  member 
for  Chichester,  he  concurred  with  the  Presbyterian  vote, 
thereby  causing  the  more  advanced  section  to  look 
askance  at  him,  and  he  was  turned  out  of  the  House, 
or  secluded,  to  use  the  elegant  parliamentary  language 
of  the  day.  From  that  time  he  lived  in  retirement  in 


Introduction.  29 

London  until  1654,  when,  as  we  read  in  Dorothy's 
letters,  he  and  his  son  go  over  to  Ireland.  He 
resumed  his  office  of  Master  of  the  Rolls,  and  in  August 
of  that  year  was  elected  to  the  Irish  Parliament  as  one 
of  the  members  for  Leitrim,  Sligo,  and  Roscommon. 

Temple's  mother  was  a  sister  of  Dr.  Hammond,  to 
whom  one  Dr.  John  Collop,  a  poetaster  unknown  in 
these  days  even  by  name,  begins  an  ode — 

"Seraphic  Doctor,  bright  evangelist." 

The  "seraphic  Doctor"  was  rector  of  Penshurst,  near 
Tunbridge  Wells,  the  seat  of  the  Sydneys.  From  Ham- 
mond, who  was  a  zealous  adherent  of  Charles  I.,  Temple 
received  much  of  his  early  education.  When  the  Par- 
liament drove  Dr.  Hammond  from  his  living,  Temple 
was  sent  to  school  at  Bishop-Stortford  ;  and  the  rest 
of  his  early  life,  with  an  account  of  his  meeting  with 
Dorothy,  has  been  already  set  down  for  us  by  Macaulay. 
Anno  Domini  sixteen  hundred  and  fifty -three;  — 
let  us  look  round  through  historic  mist  for  land- 
marks, so  that  we  may  know  our  whereabouts.  The 
narrow  streets  of  Worcester  had  been  but  lately 
stained  by  the  blood  of  heaped  corpses.  Cromwell 
was  meditating  an  abolition  of  the  Parliament,  and  a 
practical  coronation  of  himself.  The  world  had  ceased 
to  wonder  at  English  democracy  giving  laws  to  their 
quondam  rulers,  and  the  democracy  was  beginning  to  be 
a  little  tired  of  itself,  to  disbelieve  in  its  own  irksome 
discipline,  and  to  sigh  for  the  flesh-pots  of  a  modified 
Presbyterian  monarchy.  Cromwell,  indeed,  was  at  the 
height  of  his  glory,  his  honours  lie  thiclc  upon  him,  and 
now,  if  ever,  he  is  the  regal  Cromwell  that  Victor  Hugo 
has  portrayed,  the  uncrowned  King  of  England,  tram- 
pling under  foot  that  sacred  liberty,  the  baseless  ideal 
for  which  so  many  had  fought  and  bled.  He  is  soon  to 
be  Lord  Protector.  He  is  second  to  none  upon  earth. 
England  is  again  at  peace  with  herself,  and  takes  her 


30  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

position  as  one  of  the  great  Powers  of  Europe ;  Cromwell 
is  England's  king.  So  much  for  our  rulers  and  politics. 
Now  let  us  remember  our  friends,  those  whom  we  love 
on  account  of  the  work  they  have  done  for  us  and 
bequeathed  to  us,  through  which  we  have  learned  to 
know  them.  One  of  the  best  beloved  and  gentlest  of 
these,  who  by  the  satire  of  heaven  was  born  into 
England  in  these  troublous  times,  was  now  wander- 
ing by  brook  and  stream,  scarcely  annoyed  by  the 
uproar  and  confusion  of  the  factions  around  him.  And 
what  he  knew  of  England  in  these  days  he  has  left  in 
perhaps  the  gentlest  and  most  peaceful  volume  the 
world  has  ever  read.  I  speak  of  Master  Izaak  Walton, 
who  in  this  year,  1653,  published  the  first  edition  of  his 
Compleat  Angler,  and  left  a  comrade  for  the  idle  hours 
of  all  future  ages.  Other  friends  we  have,  then  living, 
but  none  so  intimate  or  well  beloved.  Mr.  Waller,  whom 
Dorothy  may  have  known,  Mr.  Cowley,  Sir  Peter  Lely, 
— who  painted  our  heroine's  portrait, — and  Dr.  Jeremy 
Taylor ;  very  courtly  and  superior  persons  are  some 
of  these,  and  far  removed  from  our  world.  Milton  is  too 
sublime  to  be  called  our  friend,  but  he  was  Cromwell's 
friend  at  this  time.  Evelyn,  too,  is  already  making  notes 
in  his  journal  at  Paris  and  elsewhere  ;  but  little  prattling 
Pepys  has  not  yet  begun  diary-making.  Other  names 
will  come  to  the  mind  of  every  reader,  but  many  of 
these  are  "  people  we  know  by  name,"  as  the  phrase  runs, 
mere  acquaintances, — not  friends.  Nevertheless  even 
these  leave  us  some  indirect  description  of  their  time, 
from  which  we  can  look  back  through  the  mind's  eye 
to  this  year  of  grace  1653,  in  which  Dorothy  was  living 
and  writing.  Yes,  if  we  cannot  actually  visualize  the 
past,  these  letters  will  at  least  convince  us  that  the  past 
did  exist,  a  past  not  wholly  unlike  the  present ;  and  if 
we  would  realize  the  significance  of  it,  we  have  the 
word  of  one  of  our  historians,  that  there  is  no  lamp 
by  which  to  study  the  history  of  this  period  that  gives 


Introduction.  3 1 

a  brighter  and  more  searching  light  than  contem- 
porary letters.  Thus  he  recommends  their  study,  and 
we  may  apply  his  words  to  the  letters  before  us : 
"  A  man  intent  to  force  for  himself  some  path  through 
that  gloomy  chaos  called  History  of  the  Seventeenth 
Century,  and  to  look  face  to  face  upon  the  same,  may 
perhaps  try  it  by  this  method  as  hopefully  as  by 
another.  Here  is  an  irregular  row  of  beacon  fires,  once 
all  luminous  as  suns  ;  and  with  a  certain  inextinguishable 
crubescence  still,  in  the  abysses  of  the  dead  deep  Night. 
Let  us  look  here.  In  shadowy  outlines,  in  dimmer  and 
dimmer  crowding  forms,  the  very  figure  of  the  old  dead 
Time  itself  may  perhaps  be  faintly  discernible  here." 

With  this,  I  feel  that  I  may  cast  off  some  of  the  forms 
and  solemnities  necessary  to  an  editorial  introduction, 
and,  assuming  a  simpler  and  more  personal  pronoun, 
ask  the  reader,  who  shall  feel  the  full  charm  of 
Dorothy's  bright  wit  and  tender  womanly  sympathy, 
to  remember  the  thanks  due  to  my  fellow -servant, 
whose  patient,  single-hearted  toil  has  placed  these 
letters  within  our  reach.  And  when  the  reader  shall 
close  this  volume,  let  it  not  be  without  a  feeling  of 
gratitude  to  the  unknown,  whose  modesty  alone  prevents 
me  from  changing  the  title  of  fellow-servant  to  that 
of  fellow-editor. 


CHAPTER     II. 

EARLY   LETTERS.      WINTER  AND   SPRINQ 
1652-53. 

THIS  first  chapter  begins  with  a  long  letter,  dated  from 
Chicksands  sometime  in  the  autumn  of  1652,  when 
Temple  has  returned  to  England  after  a  long  absence. 
It  takes  us  up  to  March  1653,  about  the  end  of  which 
time  Dorothy  went  to  London  and  met  Temple  again. 
The  engagement  she  mentions  must  have  been  one  that 
her  parents  were  forcing  upon  her,  and  it  was  not  until 
the  London  visit,  I  fancy,  that  her  friendship  progressed 
beyond  its  original  limits ;  but  in  this  matter  the  reader 
of  Dorothy's  letters  will  be  as  well  able  to  judge  as 
myself. 

Letter  I. — Goring  House,  where  Dorothy  and  Temple 
had  last  parted,  was  in  1646  appointed  by  the  House  of 
Commons  for  the  reception  of  the  French  Ambassador. 
In  1665  it  was  the  town  house  of  Mr.  Secretary  Bennet, 
afterwards  Lord  Arlington.  Its  grounds  stood  much 
in  the  position  of  the  present  Arlington  Street,  and 
Evelyn  speaks  of  it  as  an  ill-built  house,  but  capable  of 
being  made  a  pretty  villa. 

Dorothy  mentions,  among  other  things,  that  she  has 
been  "  drinking  the  waters,"  though  she  does  not  say  at 
what  place.  It  would  be  either  at  Barnet,  Epsom,  or 
Tunbridge,  all  of  which  places  are  mentioned  by  con- 
temporary letter-writers  as  health  resorts.  At  Barnet 
there  was  a  calcareous  spring  with  a  small  portion  of  sea 
salt  in  it,  which,  as  we  may  gather  from  a  later  letter 

'32 


Early  Letters.  33 

had  been  but  recently  discovered.  This  spring  was  after- 
wards, in  the  year  1677,  endowed  by  one  John  Owen, 
who  left  the  sum  of  £1  to  keep  the  well  in  repair  "  as 
long  as  it  should  be  of  service  to  the  parish."  Towards 
the  end  of  last  century,  Lyson  mentions  that  the  well 
was  in  decay  and  little  used.  One  wonders  what  has 
become  of  John  Owen's  legacy.  The  Epsom  spring 
had  been  discovered  earlier  in  the  century.  It  was  the 
first  of  its  kind  found  in  England.  The  town  was 
already  a  place  of  fashionable  resort  on  account  of  its 
mineral  waters ;  they  are  mentioned  as  of  European 
celebrity  ;  and  as  early  as  1609  a  ball-room  was  erected, 
avenues  were  planted,  and  neither  Bath  nor  Tunbridge 
could  rival  Epsom  in  the  splendour  of  their  appoint- 
ments. Towards  the  beginning  of  the  last  century, 
however,  the  waters  gradually  lost  their  reputation. 
Tunbridge  Wells,  the  last  of  the  three  watering-places 
that  Dorothy  may  have  visited,  is  still  flourishing  and 
fashionable.  Its  springs  are  said  to  have  been  dis- 
covered by  Lord  North  in  1606 ;  and  the  fortunes  of 
the  place  were  firmly  established  by  a  visit  paid  to  the 
springs  by  Queen  Henrietta  Maria,  acting  under  medical 
advice,  in  1630,  shortly  after  the  birth  of  Prince  Charles. 
At  this  date  there  was  no  adequate  accommodation  for 
the  royal  party,  and  Her  Majesty  had  to  live  in  tents  on 
the  banks  of  the  spring.  An  interesting  account  of  the 
early  legends  and  gradual  growth  of  Tunbridge  Wells  is 
to  be  found  in  a  guide-book  of  1768,  edited  by  one  Mr. 
J.  Sprange. 

The  elderly  man  who  proposed  to  Dorothy  was  Sir 
Justinian  Isham,  Bart.,  of  Lamport  in  Northampton- 
shire. He  himself  was  about  forty-two  years  of  age  at 
this  time,  and  had  lost  his  first  wife  (by  whom  he  had 
four  daughters)  in  1638.  The  Rev.  W.  Betham,  with 
that  optimism  which  is  characteristic  of  compilers  of 
peerages,  thinks  "  that  he  was  esteemed  one  of  the 
most  accomplished  persons  of  the  time,  being  a  gentle- 

c 


34  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

man,  not  only  of  fine  learning,  but  famed  for  his  piety 
and  exemplary  life."  Dorothy  thinks  otherwise,  and 
writes  of  him  as  "  the  vainest,  impertinent,  self-conceited, 
learned  coxcomb  that  ever  yet  I  saw."  Peerages  in 
Dorothy's  style  would  perhaps  be  unprofitable  writing. 
The  "Emperor,"  as  Dorothy  calls  him  in  writing  to 
Temple,  may  feel  thankful  that  his  epitaph  was  in  other 
hands  than  hers.  He  appears  to  have  proposed  to  her 
more  than  once,  and  evidently  had  her  brother's  good 
offices,  which  I  fear  were  not  much  in  his  favour  with 
Dorothy.  He  ultimately  married  the  daughter  of 
Thomas  Lord  Leigh  of  Stoneleigh,  sometime  in  the 
following  year. 

Sir  Thomas  Osborne,  a  Yorkshire  baronet,  afterwards 
Earl  of  Danby,  is  a  name  not  unknown  in  history.  He 
was  a  cousin  of  Dorothy  ;  his  mother,  Elizabeth  Danvers, 
being  Dorothy's  aunt.  He  afterwards  married  Lady 
Bridget  Lindsay,  the  Earl  of  Lindsay's  daughter,  and 
the  marriage  is  mentioned  in  due  course,  with  Dorothy's 
comments.  His  leadership  of  the  "Country  Party," 
when  the  reins  of  government  were  taken  from  the 
discredited  Cabal,  is  not  matter  for  these  pages,  neither 
are  we  much  concerned  to  know  that  he  was  greedy  of 
wealth  and  honours,  corrupt  himself,  and  a  corrupter  of 
others.  This  is  the  conventional  character  of  all  states- 
men of  all  dates  and  in  all  ages,  reflected  in  the  mirror 
of  envious  opposition;  no  one  believes  the  description 
to  be  true.  Judged  by  the  moral  standard  of  his  con- 
temporaries, he  seems  to  have  been  at  least  of  average 
height  How  near  was  Dorothy  to  the  high  places  of 
the  State  when  this  man  and  Henry  Cromwell  were 
among  her  suitors  !  Had  she  been  an  ambitious  woman, 
illustrious  historians  would  have  striven  to  do  justice  to 
her  character  in  brilliant  periods,  and  there  would  be 
no  need  at  this  day  for  her  to  claim  her  place  among 
the  celebrated  women  of  England. 


Early  Letters.  35 

SIR, — There  is  nothing  moves  my  charity  like 
gratitude ;  and  when  a  beggar  is  thankful  for  a 
small  relief,  I  always  repent  it  was  not  more. 
But  seriously,  this  place  will  not  afford  much 
towards  the  enlarging  of  a  letter,  and  I  am  grown 
so  dull  with  living  in't  (for  I  am  not  willing  to 
confess  yet  I  was  always  so)  as  to  need  all  helps. 
Yet  you  shall  see  I  will  endeavour  to  satisfy 
you,  upon  condition  you  will  tell  me  why  you 
quarrelled  so  at  your  last  letter.  I  cannot  guess 
at  it,  unless  it  were  that  you  repented  you  told 
me  so  much  of  your  story,  which  I  am  not 
apt  to  believe  neither,  because  it  would  not 
become  our  friendship,  a  great  part  of  it  consist- 
ing (as  I  have  been  taught)  in  a  mutual  con- 
fidence. And  to  let  you  see  that  I  believe  it 
so,  I  will  give  you  an  account  of  myself,  and 
begin  my  story,  as  you  did  yours,  from  our 
parting  at  Goring  House. 

I  came  down  hither  not  half  so  well  pleased  as 
I  went  up,  with  an  engagement  upon  me  that  I 
had  little  hope  of  shaking  off,  for  I  had  made  use 
of  all  the  liberty  my  friends  would  allow  me  to 
preserve  my  own,  and  'twould  not  do ;  he  was 
so  weary  of  his,  that  he  would  part  with  it  upon 
any  terms.  As  my  last  refuge  I  got  my  brother 
to  go  down  with  him  to  see  his  house,  who,  when 
he  came  back,  made  the  relation  I  wished.  He 
said  the  seat  was  as  ill  as  so  good  a  country  would 
permit,  and  the  house  so  ruined  for  want  of  living 
in't,  as  it  would  ask  a  good  proportion  of  time  and 
money  to  make  it  fit  for  a  woman  to  confine  her- 


36  Letters  from  Dorothy  Os borne. 

self  to.  This  (though  it  were  not  much)  I  -  was 
willing  to  take  hold  of,  and  made  it  considerable 
enough  to  break  the  engagement.  I  had  no 
quarrel  to  his  person  or  his  fortune,  but  was  in 
love  with  neither,  and  much  out  of  love  with  a 
thing  called  marriage;  and  have  since  thanked 
God  I  was  so,  for  'tis  not  long  since  one  of  my 
brothers  writ  me  word  of  him  that  he  was  killed 
in  a  duel,  though  since  I  have  heard  that  'twas 
the  other  that  was  killed,  and  he  is  fled  upon  't, 
which  does  not  mend  the  matter  much.  Both 
made  me  glad  I  had  'scaped  him,  and  sorry  for 
his  misfortune,  which  in  earnest  was  the  least 
return  his  many  civilities  to  me  could  deserve. 

Presently,  after  this  was  at  an  end,  my  mother 
died,  and  I  was  left  at  liberty  to  mourn  her  loss 
awhile.  At  length  my  aunt  (with  whom  I  was 
when  you  last  saw  me)  commanded  me  to  wait 
on  her  at  London  ;  and  when  I  came,  she  told 
me  how  much  I  was  in  her  care,  how  well  she 
loved  me  for  my  mother's  sake,  and  something 
for  my  own,  and  drew  out  a  long  set  speech 
which  ended  in  a  good  motion  (as  she  call'd  it) ; 
and  truly  I  saw  no  harm  in't,  for  by  what  I  had 
heard  of  the  gentleman  I  guessed  he  expected  a 
better  fortune  than  mine.  And  it  proved  so. 
Yet  he  protested  he  liked  me  so  well,  that  he  was 
very  angry  my  father  would  not  be  persuaded 
to  give  .£1000  more  with  me;  and  I  him  so  ill, 
that  I  vowed  if  I  had  ^1000  less  I  should  have 
thought  it  too  much  for  him.  And  so  we  parted. 
Since,  he  has  made  a  story  with  a  new  mistress 


Early  Letters.  37 

that  is  worth  your  knowing,  but  too  long  for  a 
letter.  I'll  keep  it  for  you. 

After  this,  some  friends  that  had  observed  a 
gravity  in  my  face  which  might  become  an  elderly 
man's  wife  (as  they  term'd  it)  and  a  mother-in- 
law,  proposed  a  widower  to  me,  that  had  four 
daughters,  all  old  enough  to  be  my  sisters ;  but 
he  had  a  great  estate,  was  as  fine  a  gentleman 
as  ever  England  bred,  and  the  very  pattern  of 
wisdom.  I  that  knew  how  much  I  wanted  it, 
thought  this  the  safest  place  for  me  to  engage  in, 
and  was  mightily  pleased  to  think  I  had  met  with 
one  at  last  that  had  wit  enough  for  himself  and 
me  too.  But  shall  I  tell  you  what  I  thought 
when  I  knew  him  (you  will  say  nothing  on't)  : 
'twas  the  vainest,  impertinent,  self- conceited, 
learned  coxcomb  that  ever  yet  I  saw;  to  say 
more  were  to  spoil  his  marriage,  which  I  hear  is 
towards  with  a  daughter  of  my  Lord  Coleraine's ; 
but  for  his  sake  I  shall  take  care  of  a  fine  gentle- 
man as  long  as  I  live. 

Before  I  have  quite  ended  with  him,  coming 
to  town  about  that  and  some  other  occasions  of 
my  own,  I  fell  in  Sir  Thomas's  way ;  and  what 
humour  took  I  cannot  imagine,  but  he  made  very 
formal  addresses  to  me,  and  engaged  his  mother 
and  my  brother  to  appear  in't.  This  bred  a  story 
pleasanter  than  any  I  have  told  you  yet,  but  so 
long  a  one  that  I  must  reserve  it  till  we  meet,  or 
make  it  a  letter  of  itself. 

The  next  thing  I  designed  to  be  rid  on  was  a 
scurvy  spleen  that  I  have  been  subject  to,  and  to 


38  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

that  purpose  was  advised  to  drink  the  waters. 
There  I  spent  the  latter  end  of  the  summer,  and 
at  my  coming  home  found  that  a  gentleman  (who 
has  some  estate  in  this  country)  had  been  treating 
with  my  brother,  and  it  yet  goes  on  fair  and 
softly.  I  do  not  know  him  so  much  as  to  give 
you  much  of  his  character  :  'tis  a  modest,  melan- 
choly, reserved  man,  whose  head  is  so  taken  up 
with  little  philosophic  studies,  that  I  admire  how 
I  found  a  room  there.  'Twas  sure  by  chance ; 
and  unless  he  is  pleased  with  that  part  of  my 
humour  which  other  people  think  the  worst,  'tis 
very  possible  the  next  new  experiment  may 
crowd  me  out  again.  Thus  you  have  all  my  late 
adventures,  and  almost  as  much  as  this  paper  will 
hold.  The  rest  shall  be  employed  in  telling  you 
how  sorry  I  am  you  have  got  such  a  cold.  I  am 
the  more  sensible  of  your  trouble  by  my  own,  for 
I  have  newly  got  one  myself.  But  I  will  send 
you  that  which  was  to  cure  me.  'Tis  like  the 
rest  of  my  medicines  :  if  it  do  no  good,  'twill  be 
sure  to  do  no  harm,  and  'twill  be  no  great  trouble 
to  take  a  little  on't  now  and  then ;  for  the  taste 
on't,  as  it  is  not  excellent,  so  'tis  not  very  ill. 
One  thing  more  I  must  tell  you,  which  is  that 
you  are  not  to  take  it  ill  that  I  mistook  your  age 
by  my  computation  of  your  journey  through  this 
country ;  for  I  was  persuaded  t'other  day  that  I 
could  not  be  less  than  thirty  years  old  by  one 
that  believed  it  himself,  because  he  was  sure  it  was 
a  great  while  since  he  had  heard  of  such  a  one  as 

Your  humble  servant. 


Early  Letters.  39 

Letter  2. — This  letter,  which  is  dated,  comes,  I  think, 
at  some  distance  of  time  from  the  first  letter.  Dorothy 
may  have  dated  her  letters  to  ordinary  folk  ;  but  as  she 
writes  to  her  servant  once  a  week  at  least,  she  seems  to 
have  considered  dates  to  be  superfluous.  When  Temple 
is  in  Ireland,  her  letters  are  generally  dated  with  the 
day  of  the  month.  Temple  had  probably  returned  from 
a  journey  into  Yorkshire, — his  travels  in  Holland  were 
over  some  time  ago, — and  passing  through  Bedford 
within  ten  miles  of  Chicksands,  he  neglected  to  pay  his 
respects  to  Dorothy,  for  which  he  is  duly  called  to 
account  in  Letter  3. 

December  24,  1652. 

SIR, — You  may  please  to  let  my  old  servant 
(as  you  call  him)  know  that  I  confess  I  owe  much 
to  his  merits  and  the  many  obligations  his  kind- 
ness and  civilities  has  laid  upon  me ;  but  for  the 
ten  pound  he  claims,  it  is  not  yet  due,  and  I  think 
you  may  do  well  to  persuade  him  (as  a  friend)  to 
put  it  in  the  number  of  his  desperate  debts,  for 
'tis  a  very  uncertain  one.  In  all  things  else,  pray 
say  I  am  his  servant.  And  now,  sir,  let  me  tell 
you  that  I  am  extremely  glad  (whosoever  gave 
you  the  occasion)  to  hear  from  you,  since  (without 
compliment)  there  are  very  few  persons  in  the 
world  I  am  more  concerned  in ;  to  find  that  you 
have  overcome  your  long  journey,  and  that  you 
are  well  and  in  a  place  where  'tis  possible  for  me 
to  see  you,  is  such  a  satisfaction  as  I,  who  have 
not  been  used  to  many,  may  be  allowed  to  doubt 
of.  Yet  I  will  hope  my  eyes  do  not  deceive  me, 
and  that  I  have  not  forgot  to  read ;  but  if  you 
please  to  confirm  it  to  me  by  another,  you  know 


4<D  Letters  from  Dorothy  Os  borne. 

how  to  direct  it,  for  I  am  where  I  was,  still  the 
same,  and  always 

Your  humble  servant, 

D.  OSBORNE. 

For  Mrs.  Paynter, 

In  Covent  Garden. 

(Keep  this  letter  till  it  be  called  for.) 

Letter  3. 

January  2nd,  1653. 

SIR, — If  there  were  anything  in  my  letter  that 
pleased  you  I  am  extremely  glad  on't,  'twas  all 
due  to  you,  and  made  it  but  an  equal  return  for 
the  satisfaction  yours  gave  me.  And  whatsoever 
you  may  believe,  I  shall  never  repent  the  good 
opinion  I  have  with  so  much  reason  taken  up. 
But  I  forget  myself;  I  meant  to  chide,  and  I 
think  this  is  nothing  towards  it.  Is  it  possible 
you  came  so  near  me  as  Bedford  and  would  not 
see  me  ?  Seriously,  I  should  not  have  believed 
it  from  another ;  would  your  horse  had  lost  all 
his  legs  instead  of  a  hoof,  that  he  might  not  have 
been  able  to  carry  you  further,  and  you,  something 
that  you  valued  extremely,  and  could  not  hope  to 
find  anywhere  but  at  Chicksands.  I  could  wish 
you  a  thousand  little  mischances,  I  am  so  angry 
with  you ;  for  my  life  I  could  not  imagine  how  I 
had  lost  you,  or  why  you  should  call  that  a 
silence  of  six  or  eight  weeks  which  you  intended 


Early  Letters.  41 

so  much  longer.  And  when  I  had  weaned  my- 
self with  thinking  of  all  the  unpleasing  accidents 
that  might  cause  it,  I  at  length  sat  -down  with  a 
resolution  to  choose  the  best  to  believe,  which 
was  that  at  the  end  of  one  journey  you  had  begun 
another  (which  I  had  heard  you  say  you  intended), 
and  that  your  haste,  or  something  else,  had 
hindered  you  from  letting  me  know  it.  In  this 
ignorance  your  letter  from  Breda  found  me. 
But  for  God's  sake  let  me  ask  you  what  you 
have  done  all  this  while  you  have  been  away ; 
what  you  have  met  with  in  Holland  that  could 
keep  you  there  so  long ;  why  you  went  no 
further ;  and  why  I  was  not  to  know  you  went  so 
far  ?  You  may  do  well  to  satisfy  me  in  all  these. 
I  shall  so  persecute  you  with  questions  else,  when 
I  see  you,  that  you  will  be  glad  to  go  thither 
again  to  avoid  me ;  though  when  that  will  be  I 
cannot  certainly  say,  for  my  father  has  so  small  a 
proportion  of  health  left  him  since  my  mother's 
death,  that  I  am  in  continual  fear  of  him,  and  dare 
not  often  make  use  of  the  leave  he  gives  me  to 
be  from  home,  lest  he  should  at  some  time  want 
such  little  services  as  I  am  able  to  lend  him. 
Yet  I  think  to  be  in  London  in  the  next  term, 
and  am  sure  I  shall  desire  it  because  you  are 
there. 

Sir,  your  humble  servant. 

Letter  4. — The  story  of  the  king  who  renounced  the 
league  with  his  too  fortunate  friend  is  told  in  the  third 
book  of  Herodotus.  Amasis  is  the  king,  and  Polycrates 


42  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

the  confederate.  Dorothy  may  have  read  the  story  in 
one  of  the  French  translations,  either  that  of  Pierre 
Saliat,  a  cramped  duodecimo  published  in  1580,  or  that 
of  P.  du  Ryer,  a  magnificent  folio  published  in  1646. 

My  Lord  of  Holland's  daughter,  Lady  Diana  Rich, 
was  one  of  Dorothy's  dearest  and  most  intimate 
friends.  Dorothy  had  a  high  opinion  of  her  excel- 
lent wit  and  noble  character,  which  she  is  never  tired 
of  repeating.  We  find  allusions  to  her  in  many  of 
these  letters  ;  she  is  called  "  My  lady,"  and  her  name  is 
always  linked  to  expressions  of  tenderness  and  esteem. 
Her  father,  Henry  Rich,  Lord  Holland,  the  second  son 
of  the  Earl  of  Warwick,  has  found  place  in  sterner 
history  than  this.  He"  was  concerned  in  a  rising  in 
1648,  when  the  King  was  in  the  Isle  of  Wight,  the  object 
of  which  was  to  rescue  and  restore  the  royal  prisoner. 
This  rising,  like  Sir  Thomas  Peyton's,  miscarried,  and 
he  suffered  defeat  at  Kingston-on-Thames,  on  July  /th 
of  that  year.  He  was  pursued,  taken  prisoner,  and 
kept  in  the  Tower  until  after  the  King's  execution. 
Then  he  was  brought  to  trial,  and,  in  accordance  with 
the  forms  and  ceremonies  of  justice,  adjudged  to  death. 
His  head  was  struck  off  before  the  gate  of  Westminster 
Hall  one  cold  March  morning  in  the  following  year,  and 
by  his  side  died  Capel  and  the  Duke  of  Hamilton. 
By  marriage  he  acquired  Holland  House,  Kensington, 
which  afterwards  passed  by  purchase  into  the  hands  of 
a  very  different  Lord  Holland,  and  has  become  famous 
among  the  houses  of  London.  Of  his  daughter,  Lady 
Diana,  I  can  learn  nothing  but  that  she  died  unmarried. 
She  seems  to  have  been  of  a  lively,  vivacious  tempera- 
ment, and  very  popular  with  the  other  sex.  There  is  a 
slight  clue  to  her  character  in  the  following  scrap  of 
letter-writing  still  preserved  among  some  old  manuscript 
papers  of  the  Hutton  family.  She  writes  to  Mr.  Hutton 
to  escort  her  in  the  Park,  adding—"  This,  I  am  sure,  you 
will  do,  because  I  am  a  friend  to  the  tobacco-box,  and 


Early  Letters.  43 

such,  I  am  sure,  Mr.  Hutton  will  have  more  respect  for 
than  for  any  other  account  that  could  be  pretended 
unto  by 

"  Your  humble  servant." 

This,  with  Dorothy's  praise,  gives  us  a  cheerful 
opinion  of  Lady  Diana,  of  whom  we  must  always  wish 
to  know  more. 

January  22nd  [1653]. 

SIR, — Not  to  confirm  you  in  your  belief  in 
dreams,  but  to  avoid  your  reproaches,  I  will  tell 
you  a  pleasant  one  of  mine.  The  night  before  I 
received  your  first  letter,  I  dreamt  one  brought 
me  a  packet,  and  told  me  it  was  from  you.  I,  that 
remembered  you  were  by  your  own  appointment 
to  be  in  Italy  at  that  time,  asked  the  messenger 
where  he  had  it,  who  told  me  my  lady,  your 
mother,  sent  him  with  it  to  me ;  then  my  memory 
failed  me  a  little,  for  I  forgot  you  had  told  me  she 
was  dead,  and  meant  to  give  her  many  humble 
thanks  if  ever  I  were  so  happy  as  to  see  her. 
When  I  had  opened  the  letter  I  found  in  it 
two  rings ;  one  was,  as  I  remember,  an  emerald 
doublet,  but  broken  in  the  carriage,  I  suppose,  as 
it  might  well  be,  coming  so  far ;  t'other  was  plain 
gold,  with  the  longest  and  the  strangest  posy  that 
ever  was  ;  half  on't  was  Italian,  which  for  my  life 
I  could  not  guess  at,  though  I  spent  much  time 
about  it ;  the  rest  was  "  there  was  a  Marriage  in 
Cana  of  Galilee,"  which,  though  it  was  Scripture, 
I  had  not  that  reverence  for  it  in  my  sleep  that  I 
should  have  had,  I  think,  if  I  had  been  awake ; 


44  Letters  from  Dorothy  Os  borne. 

for  in  earnest  the  oddness  on't  put  me  into  that 
violent  laughing  that  I  waked  myself  with  it ;  and 
as  a  just  punishment  upon  me  from  that  hour 
to  this  I  could  never  learn  whom  those  rings  were 
for,  nor  what  was  in  the  letter  besides.  This  is 
but  as  extravagant  as  yours,  for  it  is  as  likely  that 
your  mother  should  send  me  letters  as  that  I 
should  make  a  journey  to  see  poor  people  hanged, 
or  that  your  teeth  should  drop  out  at  this  age. 

And  to  remove  the  opinions  you  have  of  my 
niceness,  or  being  hard  to  please,  let  me  assure  you 
I  am  far  from  desiring  my  husband  should  be  fond 
of  me  at  threescore,  that  I  would  not  have  him 
so  at  all.  'Tis  true  I  should  be  glad  to  have  him 
always  kind,  and  know  no  reason  why  he  should 
be  wearier  of  being  my  master,  than  he  was  of 
being  my  servant.  But  it  is  very  possible  I  may 
talk  ignorantly  of  marriage ;  when  I  come  to  make 
sad  experiments  on  it  in  my  own  person  I  shall 
know  more,  and  say  less,  for  fear  of  disheartening 
others  (since  'tis  no  advantage  to  foreknow  a 
misfortune  that  cannot  be  avoided),  and  for  fear 
of  being  pitied,  which  of  all  things  I  hate.  Lest 
you  should  be  of  the  same  humour  I  will  not  pity 
you,  lame  as  you  are ;  and  to  speak  truth,  if  you 
did  like  it,  you  should  not  have  it,  for  you  do  not 
deserve  it.  Would  any  one  in  the  world,  but  you, 
make  such  haste  for  a  new  cold  before  the  old 
had  left  him ;  in  a  year,  too,  when  mere  colds  kill 
as  many  as  a  plague  used  to  do  ?  Well,  seriously, 
either  resolve  to  have  more  care  of  yourself,  or  I 
renounce  my  friendship ;  and  as  a  certain  king 


Early  Letters.  45 

(that  my  learned  knight  is  very  well  acquainted 
with),  who,  seeing  one  of  his  confederates  in  so 
happy  a  condition  as  it  was  not  likely  to  last,  sent 
his  ambassador  presently  to  break  off  the  league 
betwixt  them,  lest  he  should  be  obliged  to  mourn 
the  change  of  his  fortune  if  he  continued  his 
friend ;  so  I,  with  a  great  deal  more  reason,  do 
declare  that  I  will  no  longer  be  a  friend  to  one 
that's  none  to  himself,  nor  apprehend  the  loss  of 
what  you  hazard  every  day  at  tennis.  They  had 
served  you  well  enough  if  they  had  crammed  a 
dozen  ounces  of  that  medicine  down  your  throat 
to  have  made  you  remember  a  quinzy. 

But  I  have  done,  and  am  now  at  leisure  to  tell 
you  that  it  is  that  daughter  of  my  Lord  of  Hol- 
land (who  makes,  as  you  say,  so  many  sore  eyes 
with  looking  on  her)  that  is  here ;  and  if  I  know 
her  at  all,  or  have  any  judgment,  her  beauty  is 
the  least  of  her  excellences.  And  now  I  speak 
of  her,  she  has  given  me  the  occasion  to  make  a 
request  to  you  ;  it  will  come  very  seasonably  after 
my  chiding,  and  I  have  great  reason  to  expect 
you  should  be  in  the  humour  of  doing  anything 
for  me.  She  says  that  seals  are  much  in  fashion, 
and  by  showing  me  some  that  she  has,  has  set  me 
a-longing  for  some  too ;  such  as  are  oldest  and 
oddest  are  most  prized,  and  if  you  know  anybody 
that  is  lately  come  out  of  Italy,  'tis  ten  to  one  but 
they  have  a  store,  for  they  are  very  common 
there.  I  do  remember  you  once  sealed  a  letter  to 
me  with  as  fine  a  one  as  I  have  seen.  It  was  a 
Neptune,  I  think,  riding  upon  a  dolphin ;  but  I'm 


46  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

afraid  it  was  not  yours,  for  I  saw  it  no  more. 
My  old  Roman  head  is  a  present  for  a  prince. 
If  such  things  come  in  your  way,  pray  remember 
me.  I  am  sorry  my  new  carrier  makes  you  rise 
so  early,  'tis  not  good  for  your  cold ;  how  might 
we  do  that  you  might  lie  a-bed  and  yet  I  have 
your  letter?  You  must  use  to  write  before  he 
comes,  I  think,  that  it  may  be  sure  to  be  ready 
against  he  goes.  In  earnest  consider  on't,  and 
take  some  course  that  your  health  and  my  letters 
may  be  both  secured,  for  the  loss  of  either  would 
be  very  sensible  to 

Your  humble. 


Letter  5. — Sir  Justinian  is  the  lover  here  described. 
He  had  four  daughters,  and  it  is  one  of  Dorothy's 
favourite  jests  to  offer  Temple  a  mother-in-law's  good 
word  if  he  will  pay  court  to  one  of  them  when  she  has 
married  the  "  Emperor." 

SIR, — Since  you  are  so  easy  to  please,  sure  I 
shall  not  miss  it,  and  if  my  idle  dreams  and 
thoughts  will  satisfy  you,  I  am  to  blame  if  you 
want  long  letters.  To  begin  this,  let  me  tell  you 
I  had  not  forgot  you  in  your  absence.  I  always 
meant  you  one  of  my  daughters.  You  should 
have  had  your  choice,  and,  trust  me,  they  say 
some  of  them  are  handsome ;  but  since  things  did 
not  succeed,  I  thought  to  have  said  nothing  on't, 
lest  you  should  imagine  I  expected  thanks  for  my 
good  intention,  or  rather  lest  you  should  be  too 
much  affected  with  the  thought  of  what  you  have 


Early  Letters.  47 

lost  by  my  imprudence.  It  would  have  been  a 
good  strengthening  to  my  Party  (as  you  say); 
but,  in  earnest,  it  was  not  that  I  aimed  at,  I  only 
desired  to  have  it  in  my  power  to  oblige  you ; 
and  'tis  certain  I  had  proved  a  most  excellent 
mother-in-law.  Oh,  my  conscience !  we  should 
all  have  joined  against  him  as  the  common  enemy, 
for  those  poor  young  wenches  are  as  weary  of  his 
government  as  I  could  have  been.  He  gives 
them  such  precepts,  as  they  say  my  Lord  of 
Dorchester  gives  his  wife,  and  keeps  them  so 
much  prisoners  to  a  vile  house  he  has  in  North- 
amptonshire, that  if  but  once  I  had  let  them  loose, 
they  and  his  learning  would  have  been  sufficient 
to  have  made  him  mad  without  my  help ;  but  his 
good  fortune  would  have  it  otherwise,  to  which 
J  will  leave  him,  and  proceed  to  give  you  some 
reasons  why  the  other  motion  was  not  accepted 
on.  The  truth  is,  I  had  not  that  longing  to  ask 
a  mother-in-law's  blessing  which  you  say  you 
should  have  had,  for  I  knew  mine  too  well  to 
think  she  could  make  a  good  one ;  besides,  I  was 
not  so  certain  of  his  nature  as  not  to  doubt 
whether  she  might  not  corrupt  it,  nor  so  confident 
of  his  kindness  as  to  assure  myself  that  it  would 
last  longer  than  other  people  of  his  age  and 
humour.  I  am  sorry  to  hear  he  looks  ill,  though 
I  think  there  is  no  great  danger  of  him.  'Tis  but 
a  fit  of  an  ague  he  has  got,  that  the  next  charm 
cures,  yet  he  will  be  apt  to  fall  into  it  again  upon 
a  new  occasion,  and  one  knows  not  how  it  may 
work  upon  his  thin  body  if  it  comes  too  often ; 


48  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

it  spoiled  his  beauty,  sure,  before  I  knew  him, 
for  I  could  never  see  it,  or  else  (which  is  as 
likely)  I  do  not  know  it  when  I  see  it ;  besides 
that,  I  never  look  for  it  in  men.  It  was  nothing 
that  I  expected  made  me  refuse  these,  but  some- 
thing that  I  feared ;  and,  seriously,  I  find  I  want 
courage  to  marry  where  I  do  not  like.  If  we 
should  once  come  to  disputes  I  know  who  would 
have  the  worst  on't,  and  I  have  not  faith  enough 
to  believe  a  doctrine  that  is  often  preach'd,  which 
is,  that  though  at  first  one  has  no  kindness  for 
them,  yet  it  will  grow  strongly  after  marriage.  Let 
them  trust  to  it  that  think  good ;  for  my  part, 
I  am  clearly  of  opinion  (and  shall  die  in't),  that, 
as  the  more  one  sees  and  knows  a  person  that 
one  likes,  one  has  still  the  more  kindness  for 
them,  so,  on  the  other  side,  one  is  but  the  more 
weary  of,  and  the  more  averse  to,  an  unpleasant 
humour  for  having  it  perpetually  by  one.  And 
though  I  easily  believe  that  to  marry  one  for 
whom  we  have  already  some  affection  will  in- 
finitely increase  that  kindness,  yet  I  shall  never 
be  persuaded  that  marriage  has  a  charm  to  raise 
love  out  of  nothing,  much  less  out  of  dislike. 

This  is  next  to  telling  you  what  I  dreamed  and 
when  I  rise,  but  you  have  promised  to  be  content 
with  it.  I  would  now,  if  I  could,  tell  you  when 
I  shall  be  in  town,  but  I  am  engaged  to  my  Lady 
Diana  Rich,  my  Lord  of  Holland's  daughter  (who 
lies  at  a  gentlewoman's  hard  by  me  for  sore  eyes), 
that  I  will  not  leave  the  country  till  she  does. 
She  is  so  much  a  stranger  here,  and  finds  so  little 


Early  Letters.  49 

company,  that  she  is  glad  of  mine  till  her  eyes 
will  give  her  leave  to  look  out  better.  They  are 
mending,  and  she  hopes  to  be  at  London  before 
the  end  of  this  next  term ;  and  so  do  I,  though 
I  shall  make  but  a  short  stay,  for  all  my  business 
there  is  at  an  end  when  I  have  seen  you,  and  told 
you  my  stories.  And,  indeed,  my  brother  is  so 
perpetually  from  home,  that  I  can  be  very  little, 
unless  I  would  leave  my  father  altogether  alone, 
which  would  not  be  well.  We  hear  of  great 
disorders  at  your  masks,  but  no  particulars,  only 
they  say  the  Spanish  gravity  was  much  discom- 
posed. I  shall  expect  the  relation  from  you  at 
your  best  leisure,  and  pray  give  me  an  account 
how  my  medicine  agrees  with  your  cold.  This 
if  you  can  read  it,  for  'tis  strangely  scribbled,  will 
be  enough  to  answer  yours,  which  is  not  very 
long  this  week ;  and  I  am  grown  so  provident 
that  I  will  not  lay  out  more  than  I  receive,  but 
I  am  just  withal,  and  therefore  you  know  how  to 
make  mine  longer  when  you  please;  though,  to 
speak  truth,  if  I  should  make  this  so,  you  would 
hardly  have  it  this  week,  for  'tis  a  good  while  since 
'twas  call'd  for. 

Your  humble  servant. 

Letter  6. — The  journey  that  Temple  is  about  to  take 
may  be  a  projected  journey  with  the  Swedish  Embassy, 
which  was  soon  to  set  out.  Temple  was,  apparently, 
on  the  look-out  for  some  employment,  and  we  hear  at 
different  times  of  his  projected  excursions  into  foreign 
lands.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  stayed  in  and  near 
London  until  the  spring  of  1654,  when  he  went  to 

D 


5O  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

Ireland  with  his  father,  who  was  then  reinstated  in  his 
office  of  Master  of  the  Rolls. 

Whether  the  Mr.  Grey  here  written  of  made  love  to 
one  or  both  of  the  ladies — Jane  Seymour  and  Anne 
percy — it  is  difficul^  now  to  say.  I  have  been  able  to 
learn  nothing  more  on  the  subject  than  Dorothy  tells  us. 
This,  however,  we  know  for  certain,  that  they  both 
married  elsewhere ;  Lady  Jane  Seymour,  the  Duke  of 
Somerset's  daughter,  marrying  Lord  Clifford  of  Lones- 
borough,  the  son  of  the  Earl  of  Burleigh,  and  living  to 
1679,  when  she  was  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey. 
Poor  Lady  Anne  Percy,  daughter  of  the  Earl  of 
Northumberland,  and  niece  of  the  faithless  Lady  Car- 
lisle of  whom  we  read  in  these  letters,  was  already 
married  at  this  date  to  Lord  Stanhope,  Lord  Chester- 
field's heir.  She  died  —  probably  in  childbed  —  in 
November  of  next  year  (1654),  and  was  buried  at 
Petworth  with  her  infant  son. 

Lady  Anne  Wentworth  was  the  daughter  of  the 
famous  and  ill-fated  Earl  of  Strafford.  She  married 
Lord  Rockingham. 

The  reader  will  remember  that  "my  lady"  is  Lady 
Diana  Rich. 

March  5/7*  [1653]. 

SIR, — I  know  not  how  to  oblige  so  civil  a 
person  as  you  are  more  than  by  giving  you  the 
occasion  of  serving  a  fair  lady.  In  sober  earnest, 
I  know  you  will  not  think  it  a  trouble  to  let  your 
boy  deliver  these  books  and  this  enclosed  letter 
where  it  is  directed  for  my  lady,  whom  I  would, 
the  fainest  in  the  world,  have  you  acquainted  with, 
that  you  might  judge  whether  I  had  not  reason  to 
say  somebody  was  to  blame.  But  had  you  reason 
to  be  displeased  that  I  said  a  change  in  you 


Early  Letters.  5  i 

would  be  much  more  pardonable  than  in  him  ? 
Certainly  you  had  not.  I  spake  it  very  inno- 
cently, and  out  of  a  great  sense  how  much  she 
deserves  more  than  anybody  else.  I  shall  take 
heed  though  hereafter  what  I  write,  since  you 
are  so  good  at  raising  doubts  to  persecute  your- 
self withal,  and  shall  condemn  my  own  easy  faith 
no  more ;  for  me  'tis  a  better-natured  and  a  less 
fault  to  believe  too  much  than  to  distrust  where 
there  is  no  cause.  If  you  were  not  so  apt  to 
quarrel,  I  would  tell  you  that  I  am  glad  to  hear 
your  journey  goes  forwarder,  but  you  would 
presently  imagine  that  'tis  because  I  would  be 
glad  if  you  were  gone ;  need  I  say  that  'tis 
because  I  prefer  your  interest  much  before  my 
own,  because  I  would  not  have  you  lose  so  good 
a  diversion  and  so  pleasing  an  entertainment  (as 
in  all  likelihood  this  voyage  will  be  to  you),  and 
because  the  sooner  you  go,  the  sooner  I  may 
hope  for  your  return.  If  it  be  necessary,  I  will 
confess  all  this,  and  something  more,  which  is, 
that  notwithstanding  all  my  gallantry  and  resolu- 
tion, 'tis  much  for  my  credit  that  my  courage  is 
put  to  no  greater  a  trial  than  parting  with  you  at 
this  distance.  But  you  are  not  going  yet  neither, 
and  therefore  we'll  leave  the  discourse  on't  till 
then,  if  you  please,  for  I  find  no  great  entertain- 
ment in't.  And  let  me  ask  you  whether  it  be 
possible  that  Mr.  Grey  makes  love,  they  say  he 
does,  to  my  Lady  Jane  Seymour  ?  If  it  were 
expected  that  one  should  give  a  reason  for  their 
passions,  what  could  he  say  for  himself?  He 


52  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

would  not  offer,  sure,  to  make  us  believe  my 
Lady  Jane  a  lovelier  person  than  my  Lady  Anne 
Percy.  I  did  not  think  I  should  have  lived  to 
have  seen  his  frozen  heart  melted,  'tis  the  greatest 
conquest  she  will  ever  make;  may  it  be  happy 
to  her,  but  in  my  opinion  he  has  not  a  good- 
natured  look.  The  younger  brother  was  a 
servant,  a  great  while,  to  my  fair  neighbour, 
but  could  not  be  received ;  and  in  earnest  I 
could  not  blame  her.  I  was  his  confidante  and 
heard  him  make  his  addresses ;  not  that  I  brag 
of  the  favour  he  did  me,  for  anybody  might  have 
been  so  that  had  been  as  often  there,  and  he 
was  less  scrupulous  in  that  point  than  one  would 
have  been  that  had  had  less  reason.  But  in  my 
life  I  never  heard  a  man  say  more,  nor  less  to 
the  purpose  ;  and  if  his  brother  have  not  a  better 
gift  in  courtship,  he  will  owe  my  lady's  favour 
to  his  fortune  rather  than  to  his  address.  My 
Lady  Anne  Wentworth  I  hear  is  marrying,  but 
I  cannot  learn  to  whom ;  nor  is  it  easy  to  guess 
who  is  worthy  of  her.  In  my  judgment  she  is, 
without  dispute,  the  finest  lady  I  know  (one 
always  excepted) ;  not  that  she  is  at  all  hand- 
some, but  infinitely  virtuous  and  discreet,  of  a 
sober  and  very  different  humour  from  most  of 
the  young  people  of  these  times,  but  has  as 
much  wit  and  is  as  good  company  as  anybody 
that  ever  I  saw.  What  would  you  give  that  I 
had  but  the  wit  to  know  when  to  make  an  end 
of  my  letters  ?  Never  anybody  was  persecuted 
with  such  long  epistles ;  but  you  will  pardon  my 


Early  Letters.  53 

unwillingness  to  leave  you,  and  notwithstanding 
all  your  little  doubts,  believe  that  I  am  very 
much 

Your  faithful  friend 

and  humble  servant, 

D.  OSBORNE. 

Letter  7.  —  There  seem  to  have  been  two  carriers 
bringing  letters  to  Dorothy  at  this  time,  Harrold  and 
Collins ;  we  hear  something  of  each  of  them  in  the 
following  letters.  Those  who  have  seen  the  present- 
day  carriers  in  some  unawakened  market-place  in  the 
Midlands,  —  heavy,  rumbling,  two-horse  cars  of  huge 
capacity,  whose  three  miles  an  hour  is  fast  becoming 
too  sluggish  for  their  enfranchised  clients ;  those  who 
have  jolted  over  the  frozen  ruts  of  a  fen  road,  behind 
their  comfortable  Flemish  horses,  and  heard  the  gossip 
of  the  farmers  and  their  wives,  the  grunts  of  the 
discontented  baggage  pig,  and  the  encouraging  shouts 
of  the  carrier ;  those,  in  a  word,  who  have  travelled 
in  a  Lincolnshire  carrier's  cart,  have,  I  fancy,  a  more 
correct  idea  of  Dorothy's  postmen  and  their  convey- 
ances than  any  I  could  quote  from  authority  or  draw 
from  imagination. 

Lord  Lisle  was  the  son  of  Robert  Sidney,  Earl  of 
Leicester,  and  brother  of  the  famous  Algernon.  He  sat 
in  the  Long  Parliament  for  Yarmouth,  in  the  Isle  of 
Wight,  and  afterwards  became  a  member  of  the  Upper 
House.  Concerning  his  embassage  to  Sweden  this  is 
again  proposed  to  him  in  September  1653,  but,  as  we 
read  in  the  minutes  of  the  Council,  "  when  he  was  desired 
to  proceed,  finding  himself  out  of  health,  he  desired  to 
be  excused,  whereupon  Council  still  wishing  to  send 
the  embassy — the  Queen  of  Sweden  being  favourably 
inclined  to  the  Commonwealth  —  pitched  upon  Lord 
Whitelocke,  who  was  willing  to  go." 


54  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

To  Lady  Sunderland  and  Mr.  Smith  there  are  several 
amusing  references  in  these  letters.  Lady  Sunderland 
was  the  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Leicester,  and  sister  of 
Algernon  Sydney.  She  was  born  in  1620,  and  at  the 
age  of  nineteen  married  Henry  Lord  Spencer,  who  was 
killed  in  the  battle  of  Newbury  in  1642.  After  her 
husband's  death,  she  retired  to  Brington  in  Northamp- 
tonshire, until,  wearied  with  the  heavy  load  of  house- 
keeping, she  came  to  live  with  her  father  and  mother  at 
Penshurst.  In  the  Earl  of  Leicester's  journal,  under 
date  Thursday,  July  8th,  1652,  we  find  : — "  My  daughter 
Spencer  was  married  to  Sir  Robert  Smith  at  Penshurst, 
my  wife  being  present  with  my  daughters  Strangford, 
and  Lacy  Pelham,  Algernon  and  Robin  Sydney,  etc.  ; 
but  I  was  in  London."  From  this  we  may  imagine 
the  Earl  did  not  greatly  approve  the  match.  The 
ubiquitous  Evelyn  was  there,  too,  to  see  "  ye  marriage 
of  my  old  fellow  collegian  Mr.  Robt.  Smith  ; "  and  the 
place  being  full  of  company,  he  probably  enjoyed 
himself  vastly.  Lady  Sunderland  was  the  Sacharissa 
of  Waller  the  poet. 

SIR, — I  am  so  great  a  lover  of  my  bed  myself 
that  I  can  easily  apprehend  the  trouble  of  rising 
at  four  o'clock  these  cold  mornings.  In  earnest, 
I'm  troubled  that  you  should  be  put  to  it,  and 
have  chid  the  carrier  for  coming  out  so  soon ; 
he  swears  to  me  he  never  comes  out  of  town 
before  eleven  o'clock,  and  that  my  Lady  Paynter's 
footman  (as  he  calls  him)  brings  her  letters  two 
hours  sooner  than  he  needs  to  do.  I  told  him 
he  was  gone  one  day  before  the  letter  came  ; 
he  vows  he  was  not,  and  that  your  old  friend 
Collins  never  brought  letters  of  my  Lady  Paynter's 
in  his  life;  and,  to  speak  truth,  Collins  did  not 


Early  Letters.  55 

bring  me  that  letter.  I  had  it  from  this  Harrold 
two  hours  before  Collins  came.  Yet  it  is  possible 
all  that  he  says  may  not  be  so,  for  I  have  known 
better  men  than  he  lie ;  therefore  if  Collins  be 
more  for  your  ease  or  conveniency,  make  use 
of  him  hereafter.  I  know  not  whether  my  letter 
were  kind  or  not,  but  I'll  swear  yours  was  not, 
and  am  sure  mine  was  meant  to  be  so.  It  is 
not  kind  in  you  to  desire  an  increase  of  my 
friendship ;  that  is  to  doubt  it  is  not  as  great 
already  as  it  can  be,  than  which  you  cannot 
do  me  a  greater  injury.  'Tis  my  misfortune 
indeed  that  it  lies  not  in  my  power  to  give 
you  better  testimony  on't  than  words,  otherwise 
I  should  soon  convince  you  that  'tis  the  best 
quality  I  have,  and  that  where  I  own  a  friend- 
ship, I  mean  so  perfect  a  one,  as  time  can  neither 
lessen  nor  increase.  If  I  said  nothing  of  my 
coming  to  town,  'twas  because  I  had  nothing 
to  say  that  I  thought  you  would  like  to  hear. 
For  I  do  not  know  that  ever  I  desired  anything 
earnestly  in  my  life,  but  'twas  denied  me,  and  I 
am  many  times  afraid  to  wish  a  thing  merely  lest 
my  Fortune  should  take  that  occasion  to  use  me 
ill.  She  cannot  see,  and  therefore  I  may  venture 
to  write  that  I  intend  to  be  in  London  if 
it  be  possible  on  Friday  or  Saturday  come 
sennight.  Be  sure  you  do  not  read  it  aloud, 
lest  she  hear  it,  and  prevent  me,  or  drive  you 
away  before  I  come.  It  is  so  like  my  luck, 
too,  that  you  should  be  going  I  know  not  whither 
again ;  but  trust  me,  I  have  looked  for  it  ever 


56  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

since  I  heard  you  were  come  home.  You  will 
laugh,  sure,  when  I  shall  tell  you  that  hearing 
that  my  Lord  Lisle  was  to  go  ambassador  into 
Sweden,  I  remember'd  your  father's  acquaintance 
in  that  family  with  an  apprehension  that  he  might 
be  in  the  humour  of  sending  you  with  him.  But 
for  God's  sake  whither  is  it  that  you  go  ?  I 
would  not  willingly  be  at  such  a  loss  again  as  I 
was  after  your  Yorkshire  journey.  If  it  prove  as 
long  a  one,  I  shall  not  forget  you ;  but  in  earnest 
I  shall  be  so  possessed  with  a  strong  splenetic 
fancy  that  I  shall  never  see  you  more  in  this 
world,  as  all  the  waters  in  England  will  not  cure. 
Well,  this  is  a  sad  story ;  we'll  have  no  more  on't. 
I  humbly  thank  you  for  your  offer  of  your 
head ;  but  if  you  were  an  emperor,  I  should  not 
be  so  bold  with  you  as  to  claim  your  promise ; 
you  might  find  twenty  better  employments  for't. 
Only  with  your  gracious  leave,  I  think  I  should 
be  a  little  exalted  with  remembering  that  you 
had  been  once  my  friend ;  'twould  more  endanger 
my  growing  proud  than  being  Sir  Justinian's 
mistress,  and  yet  he  thought  me  pretty  well 
inclin'd  to't  then.  Lord!  what  would  I  give 
that  I  had  a  Latin  letter  of  his  for  you,  that  he 
writ  to  a  great  friend  at  Oxford,  where  he  gives 
him  a  long  and  learned  character  of  me ;  'twould 
serve  you  to  laugh  at  this  seven  years.  If  I 
remember  what  was  told  me  on't,  the  worst  of  my 
faults  was  a  height  (he  would  not  call  it  pride) 
that  was,  as  he  had  heard,  the  humour  of  my 
family ;  and  the  best  of  my  commendations  was, 


Early  Letters.  57 

that  I  was  capable  of  being  company  and  con- 
versation for  him.  But  you  do  not  tell  me  yet 
how  you  found  him  out.  If  I  had  gone  about  to 
conceal  him,  I  had  been  sweetly  serv'd.  I  shall 
take  heed  of  you  hereafter ;  because  there  is  no 
very  great  likelihood  of  your  being  an  emperor, 
or  that,  if  you  were,  I  should  have  your  head. 

I  have  sent  into  Italy  for  seals ;  'tis  to  be 
hoped  by  that  time  mine  come  over,  they  may 
be  of  fashion  again,  for  'tis  an  humour  that  your 
old  acquaintance  Mr.  Smith  and  his  lady  have 
brought  up ;  they  say  she  wears  twenty  strung 
upon  a  ribbon,  like  the  nuts  boys  play  withal, 
and  I  do  not  hear  of  anything  else.  Mr.  Howard 
presented  his  mistress  but  a  dozen  such  seals 
as  are  not  to  be  valued  as  times  now  go.  But 
a  propos  of  Monsr.  Smith,  what  a  scape  has  he 
made  of  my  Lady  Barbury ;  and  who  would 
e'er  have  dreamt  he  should  have  had  my  Lady 
Sunderland,  though  he  be  a  very  fine  gentleman, 
and  does  more  than  deserve  her.  I  think  I  shall 
never  forgive  her  one  thing  she  said  of  him, 
which  was  that  she  married  him  out  of  pity ;  it 
was  the  pitifullest  saying  that  ever  I  heard,  and 
made  him  so  contemptible  that  I  should  not  have 
married  him  for  that  reason.  This  is  a  strange 
letter,  sure,  I  have  not  time  to  read  it  over,  but 
I  have  said  anything  that  came  into  my  head 
to  put  you  out  of  your  dumps.  For  God's  sake 
be  in  better  humour,  and  assure  yourself  I  am  as 
much  as  you  can  wish, 

Your  faithful  friend  and  servant. 


58  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osbornc. 

Letter  8.  —  The  name  of  Algernon  Sydney  occurs 
more  than  once  in  these  pages,  and  it  is  therefore  only 
right  to  remind  the  reader  of  some  of  the  leading  facts 
in  his  life.  He  was  born  in  1622,  and  was  the  second 
son  of  Robert  Earl  of  Leicester.  He  was  educated  in 
Paris  and  Italy,  and  first  served  in  the  army  in  Ireland. 
On  his  recall  to  England  he  espoused  the  popular 
cause,  and  fought  on  that  side  in  the  battle  of  Marston 
Moor.  In  1651  he  was  elected  a  member  of  the 
Council  of  State,  and  in  this  situation  he  continued  to 
act  until  1653.  It  is  unnecessary  to  mention  his 
republican  sympathies,  and  after  the  dismissal  of  the 
Parliament,  his  future  actions  concern  us  but  little. 
He  was  arrested,  tried,  and  executed  in  1683,  on 
the  pretence  of  being  concerned  in  the  Rye  House 
Plot. 

Arundel  Howard  was  Henry,  second  son  of  the  Earl 
of  Arundel.  His  father  died  July  12,  1652.  Dorothy 
would  call  him  Arundel  Howard,  to  distinguish  him 
from  the  Earl  of  Berkshire's  family. 


SIR, — You  have  made  me  so  rich  as  I  am  able 
to  help  my  neighbours.  There  is  a  little  head 
cut  in  an  onyx  that  I  take  to  be  a  very  good  one, 
and  the  dolphin  is  (as  you  say)  the  better  for 
being  cut  less ;  the  oddness  of  the  figures  makes 
the  beauty  of  these  things.  If  you  saw  one  that 
my  brother  sent  my  Lady  Diana  last  week,  you 
would  believe  it  were  meant  to  fright  people 
withal ;  'twas  brought  out  of  the  Indies,  and  cut 
there  for  an  idol's  head  :  they  took  the  devil  him- 
self for  their  pattern  that  did  it,  for  in  my  life  I 
never  saw  so  ugly  a  thing,  and  yet  she  is  as  fond 
on't  as  if  it  were  as  lovely  as  she  herself  is.  Her 


Early  Letters.  59 

eyes  have  not  the  flames  they  have  had,  nor  is 
she  like  (I  am  afraid)  to  recover  them  here;  but 
were  they  irrecoverably  lost,  the  beauty  of  her 
mind  were  enough  to  make  her  outshine  every- 
body else,  and  she  would  still  be  courted  by  all 
that  knew  how  to  value  her,  like  la  belle  aveugle  that 
was  Philip  the  2nd  of  France  his  mistress.  I  am 
wholly  ignorant  of  the  story  you  mention,  and  am 
confident  you  are  not  well  inform'd,  for  'tis  im- 
possible she  should  ever  have  done  anything  that 
were  unhandsome.  If  I  knew  who  the  person 
were  that  is  concern'd  in't,  she  allows  me  so 
much  freedom  with  her,  that  I  could  easily  put 
her  upon  the  discourse,  and  I  do  not  think  she 
would  use  much  of  disguise  in  it  towards  me.  I 
should  have  guessed  it  Algernon  Sydney,  but 
that  I  cannot  see  in  him  that  likelihood  of  a 
fortune  which  you  seem  to  imply  by  saying  'tis 
not  present.  But  if  you  should  mean  by  that, 
that  'tis  possible  his  wit  and  good  parts  may  raise 
him  to  one,  you  must  pardon  if  I  am  not  of  your 
opinion,  for  I  do  not  think  these  are  times  for 
anybody  to  expect  preferment  in  that  deserves 
it,  and  in  the  best  'twas  ever  too  uncertain  for  a 
wise  body  to  trust  to.  But  I  am  altogether  of 
your  mind,  that  my  Lady  Sunderland  is  not  to  be 
followed  in  her  marrying  fashion,  and  that  Mr. 
Smith  never  appear'd  less  her  servant  than  in 
desiring  it ;  to  speak  truth,  it  was  convenient  for 
neither  of  them,  and  in  meaner  people  had  been 
plain  undoing  one  another,  which  I  cannot  under- 
stand to  be  kindness  of  either  side.  She  has  lost 


60  Letters  Jrom  Dorothy  Osborne. 

by  it  much  of  the  repute  she  had  gained  by 
keeping  herself  a  widow;  it  was  then  believed 
that  wit  and  discretion  were  to  be  reconciled  in 
her  person  that  have  so  seldom  been  persuaded 
to  meet  in  anybody  else.  But  we  are  all 
mortal. 

I  did  not  mean  that  Howard.  'Twas  Arundel 
Howard.  And  the  seals  were  some  remainders 
that  showed  his  father's  love  to  antiquities,  and 
therefore  cost  him  dear  enough  if  that  would 
make  them  good.  I  am  sorry  I  cannot  follow 
your  counsel  in  keeping  fair  with  Fortune.  I  am 
not  apt  to  suspect  without  just  cause,  but  in 
earnest  if  I  once  find  anybody  faulty  towards  me, 
they  lose  me  for  ever ;  I  have  forsworn  being 
twice  deceived  by  the  same  person.  For  God's 
sake  do  not  say  she  has  the  spleen,  I  shall  hate  it 
worse  than  ever  I  did,  nor  that  it  is  a  disease  of 
the  wits,  I  shall  think  you  abuse  me,  for  then  I 
am  sure  it  would  not  be  mine ;  but  were  it  certain 
that  they  went  together  always,  I  dare  swear 
there  is  nobody  so  proud  of  their  wit  as  to  keep 
it  upon  such  terms,  but  would  be  glad  after  they 
had  endured  it  a  while  to  let  them  both  go  as 
they  came.  I  know  nothing  yet  that  is  likely  to 
alter  my  resolution  of  being  in  town  on  Saturday 
next ;  but  I  am  uncertain  where  I  shall  be,  and 
therefore  it  will  be  best  that  I  send  you  word 
when  I  am  there.  I  should  be  glad  to  see  you 
sooner,  but  that  I  do  not  know  myself  what  com- 
pany I  may  have  with  me.  I  meant  this  letter 
longer  when  I  begun  it,  but  an  extreme  cold  that 


Early  Letters.  61 

I  have  taken  lies  so  in  my  head,  and  makes  it 
ache  so  violently,  that  I  hardly  see  what  I  do. 
I'll  e'en  to  bed  as  soon  as  I  have  told  you  that  I 
am  very  much 

Your  faithful  friend 

and  servant, 

D.  OSBORNE. 


CHAPTER     III. 

LIFE   AT    CHICKSANDS.       1653. 

Letter  9. — Temple's  sister  here  mentioned  was  his 
only  sister  Martha,  who  married  Sir  Thomas  Giffard  in 
1662,  and  was  left  a  widow  within  two  months  of  her 
marriage.  She  afterwards  lived  with  Temple  and  his 
wife,  was  a  great  favourite  with  them,  and  their  con- 
fidential friend.  Lady  GifTard  has  left  a  manuscript 
life  of  her  brother  from  which  the  historian  Courtenay 
deigned  to  extract  some  information,  whereby  we  in 
turn  have  benefited.  She  outlived  both  her  brother  and 
his  wife,  to  carry  on  a  warlike  encounter  with  her 
brother's  amanuensis,  Mr.  Jonathan  Swift,  over  Temple's 
literary  remains.  Esther  Johnson,  the  unfortunate 
Stella,  was  Lady  Giffard's  maid. 

CUopatre  and  Le  Grand  Cyrus  appear  to  have  been 
Dorothy's  literary  companions  at  this  date.  She  would 
read  these  in  the  original  French ;  and,  as  she  tells  us 
somewhere,  had  a  scorn  of  translations.  Both  these 
romances  were  much  admired,  even  by  people  of  taste  ; 
a  thing  difficult  to  understand,  until  we  remember  that 
Fielding,  the  first  and  greatest  English  novelist,  was  yet 
unborn,  and  novels,  as  we  know  them,  non-existing. 
Both  the  romances  found  translators  ;  Cyrus,  in  one 
mysterious  F.  G.  Gent — the  translation  was  published 
in  this  year ;  Ctiopatre,  in  Richard  Loveday,  an  elegant 
letter-writer  of  this  time. 

Artamenes,  or  Le  Grand  Cyrus,  the  masterpiece  of 
Mademoiselle  Madeleine  de  Scude'ri,  is  contained  in  no 


Life  at  Chicksands.  63 

less  than  ten  volumes,  each  of  which  in  its  turn  has 
many  books  ;  it  is,  in  fact,  more  a  collection  of  romances 
than  a  single  romance.  La  Cleopdtre,  a  similar  work, 
was  originally  published  in  twenty-three  volumes  of 
twelve  parts,  each  part  containing  three  or  four  books. 
It  is  but  a  collection  of  short  stories.  Its  author 
rejoiced  in  the  romantic  title  of  Gauthier  de  Costes 
Chevalier  Seigneur  de  la  Calprenede  ;  he  published 
Ctiopatre  in  1642  ;  he  was  the  author  of  other  romances, 
and  some  tragedies,  noted  only  for  their  worthlessness. 
Even  Richelieu,  "quoiqu"  admirateur  indulgent  de  la 
m^diocrite,"  could  not  stand  Calprenede's  tragedies. 
Reine  Marguerite  is  probably  the  translation  by  Robert 
Codrington  of  the  Memorials  of  Margaret  of  Valois, 
first  wife  of  Henri  IV.  Bussy  is  a  servant  of  the  Duke 
of  Avenson,  Margaret's  brother,  with  whom  Margaret 
is  very  intimate. 

Of  Lady  Sunderland  and  Mr.  Smith  we  have  already 
sufficient  knowledge.  As  for  Sir  Justinian,  we  are  not 
to  think  he  was  already  married  ;  the  reference  to  his 
"  new  wife "  is  merely  jocular,  meaning  his  new  wife 
when  he  shall  get  one ;  for  Sir  Justinian  is  still  wife- 
hunting,  and  comes  back  to  renew  his  suit  with  Dorothy 
after  this  date.  "  Your  fellow-servant,"  who  is  as  often 
called  Jane,  appears  to  have  been  a  friend  and  com- 
panion of  Dorothy,  in  a  somewhat  lower  rank  of  life. 
Mrs.  Goldsmith,  mentioned  in  a  subsequent  letter, — 
wife  of  Daniel  Goldsmith,  the  rector  of  Campton, 
in  which  parish  Chicksands  was  situated,  —  acted  as 
chaperon  or  duenna  companion  to  Dorothy,  and  Jane 
was,  it  seems  to  me,  in  a  similar  position  ;  only,  being 
a  younger  woman  than  the  rector's  wife,  she  was  more 
the  companion  and  less  the  duenna.  The  servants  and 
companions  of  ladies  of  that  date  were  themselves 
gentlewomen  of  good  breeding.  Waller  writes  verses 
to  Mrs.  Braughton,  servant  to  Sacharissa,  commencing 
his  lines,  "Fair  fellow-servant."  Temple,  had  he  written 


64  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

verse  to  his  mistress,  would  probably  have  left  us  some 
"  Lines  to  Jane." 

There  is  in  Campton  Church  a  tablet  erected  to 
Daniel  Goldsmith,  "  Ecclesiae  de  Campton  Pastor  idem 
et  Patronus ; "  also  to  Maria  Goldsmith,  "  uxor  dilec- 
tissima."  This  is  erected  by  Maria's  faithful  sister,  Jane 
Wright ;  and  if  the  astute  reader  shall  think  fit  to  agree 
with  me  in  believing  Temple's  "  fellow-servant "  to  be 
this  Jane  Wright  on  such  slender  evidence  and  slight 
thread  of  argument,  he  may  well  do  so.  Failing  this, 
all  search  after  Jane  will,  I  fear,  prove  futile  at  this 
distant  date.  There  are  constant  references  to  Jane  in 
the  letters.  "  Her  old  woman,"  in  the  same  passage,  is, 
of  course,  a  jocular  allusion  to  Dorothy  herself;  and 
"  the  old  knight "  is,  I  believe,  Sir  Robert  Cook,  a 
Bedfordshire  gentleman,  of  whom  nothing  is  known 
except  that  he  was  knighted  at  Ampthill,  July  2ist, 
1621.  We  hear  some  little  more  of  him  from  Dorothy. 

Note  well  the  signature  of  this  and  following  letters ; 
it  will  help  us  to  discover  what  passed  between  the 
friends  in  London.  For  my  own  part,  I  do  not  think 
Dorothy  means  that  she  has  ceased  to  be  faitJiful  in 
that  she  has  become  "his  affectionate  friend  and 
servant." 


SIR, — I  was  so  kind  as  to  write  to  you  by  the 
coachman,  and  let  me  tell  you  I  think  'twas  the 
greatest  testimony  of  my  friendship  that  I  could 
give  you ;  for,  trust  me,  I  was  so  tired  with  my 
journey,  so  dowd  with  my  cold,  and  so  out  of 
humour  with  our  parting,  that  I  should  have  done 
it  with  great  unwillingness  to  anybody  else.  I 
lay  abed  all  next  day  to  recover  myself,  and 
rised  a  Thursday  to  receive  your  letter  with  the 
more  ceremony.  I  found  no  fault  with  the  ill 


Life  at  Ckicksands.  65 

writing,  'twas  but  too  easy  to  read,  methought, 
for  I  am  sure  I  had  done  much  sooner  than  I 
could  have  wished.  But,  in  earnest,  I  was  heartily 
troubled  to  find  you  in  so  much  disorder.  I  would 
not  have  you  so  kind  to  me  as  to  be  cruel  to 
yourself,  in  whom  I  am  more  concerned.  No ; 
for  God's  sake,  let  us  not  make  afflictions  of  such 
things  as  these ;  I  am  afraid  we  shall  meet  with 
too  many  real  ones. 

I  am  glad  your  journey  holds,  because  I  think 
'twill  be  a  good  diversion  for  you  this  summer; 
but  I  admire  your  father's  patience,  that  lets  you 
rest  with  so  much  indifference  when  there  is  such 
a  fortune  offered.  I'll  swear  I  have  great  scruples 
of  conscience  myself  on  the  point,  and  am  much 
afraid  I  am  not  your  friend  if  I  am  any  part  of  the 
occasion  that  hinders  you  from  accepting  it.  Yet 
I  am  sure  my  intentions  towards  you  are  very 
innocent  and  good,  for  you  are  one  of  those  whose 
interests  I  shall  ever  prefer  much  above  my  own ; 
and  you  are  not  to  thank  me  for  it,  since,  to  speak 
truth,  I  secure  my  own  by  it ;  for  I  defy  my  ill 
fortune  to  make  me  miserable,  unless  she  does  it 
in  the  persons  of  my  friends.  I  wonder  how  your 
father  came  to  know  I  was  in  town,  unless  my  old 
friend,  your  cousin  Hammond,  should  tell  him. 
Pray,  for  my  sake,  be  a  very  obedient  son ;  all 
your  faults  will  be  laid  to  my  charge  else,  and, 
alas  !  I  have  too  many  of  my  own. 

You  say  nothing  how  your  sister  does,  which 
makes  me  hope  there  is  no  more  of  danger  in  her 
sickness.  Pray,  when  it  may  be  no  trouble  to 

E 


66  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

her,  tell  her  how  much  I  am  her  servant;  and 
have  a  care  of  yourself  this  cold  weather.  I  have 
read  your  Reine  Marguerite,  and  will  return  it 
you  when  you  please.  If  you  will  have  my 
opinion  of  her,  I  think  she  had  a  good  deal  of 
wit,  and  a  great  deal  of  patience  for  a  woman  of 
so  high  a  spirit.  She  speaks  with  too  much  in- 
difference of  her  husband's  several  amours,  and 
commends  Bussy  as  if  she  were  a  little  concerned 
in  him.  I  think  her  a  better  sister  than  a  wife, 
and  believe  she  might  have  made  a  better  wife  to 
a  better  husband.  But  the  story  of  Mademoiselle 
de  Tournon  is  so  sad,  that  when  I  had  read  it 
I  was  able  to  go  no  further,  and  was  fain  to  take 
up  something  else  to  divert  myself  withal.  Have 
you  read  Cltopdtre  ?  I  have  six  tomes  on't  here 
that  I  can  lend  you  if  you  have  not ;  there  are 
some  stories  in't  you  will  like,  I  believe.  But 
what  an  ass  am  I  to  think  you  can  be  idle  enough 
at  London  to  read  romance  !  No,  I'll  keep  them 
till  you  come  hither ;  here  they  may  be  welcome  to 
you  for  want  of  better  company.  Yet,  that  you 
may  not  imagine  we  are  quite  out  of  the  world 
here,  and  so  be  frighted  from  coming,  I  can  assure 
you  we  are  seldom  without  news,  such  as  it  is ; 
and  at  this  present  we  do  abound  with  stories 
of  my  Lady  Sunderland  and  Mr.  Smith ;  with 
what  reverence  he  approaches  her,  and  how  like 
a  gracious  princess  she  receives  him,  that  they  say 
'tis  worth  one's  going  twenty  miles  to  see  it.  All 
our  ladies  are  mightily  pleased  with  the  example, 
but  I  do  not  find  that  the  men  intend  to  follow  it, 


Life  at  Chicksands.  67 

and  I'll  undertake  Sir  Solomon  Justinian  wishes 
her  in  the  Indias,  for  fear  she  should  pervert  his 
new  wife. 

Your  fellow-servant  kisses  your  hands,  and  says, 
"  If  you  mean  to  make  love  to  her  old  woman  this 
is  the  best  time  you  can  take,  for  she  is  dying ; 
this  cold  weather  kills  her,  I  think."  It  has  undone 
me,  I  am  sure,  in  killing  an  old  knight  that  I  have 
been  waiting  for  this  seven  year,  and  now  he  dies 
and  will  leave  me  nothing,  I  believe,  but  leaves 
a  rich  widow  for  somebody.  I  think  you  had  best 
come  awooing  to  her ;  I  have  a  good  interest  in 
her,  and  it  shall  be  all  employed  in  your  service 
if  you  think  fit  to  make  any  addresses  there.  But 
to  be  sober  now  again,  for  God's  sake  send  me 
word  how  your  journey  goes  forward,  when  you 
think  you  shall  begin  it,  and  how  long  it  may 
last,  when  I  may  expect  your  coming  this  way  ; 
and  of  all  things,  remember  to  provide  a  safe 
address  for  your  letters  when  you  are  abroad. 
This  is  a  strange,  confused  one,  I  believe ;  for 
I  have  been  called  away  twenty  times,  since  I  sat 
clown  to  write  it,  to  my  father,  who  is  not  well ; 
but  you  will  pardon  it — we  are  past  ceremony,  and 
excuse  me  if  I  say  no  more  now  but  that  I  am 
toujours  le  mesme,  that  is,  ever 

Your  affectionate 

friend  and  servant. 


Letter  10. — Dorothy  is  suffering  from  the  spleen,  a 
disease  as  common  to-day  as  then,  though  we  have  lost 
the  good  name  for  it  This  and  the  ague  plague  her 


68  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osbornc. 

continually.  My  Lord  Lisle's  proposed  embassy  to 
Sweden  is,  we  see,  still  delayed  ;  ultimately  Bulstrode 
Whitelocke  is  chosen  ambassador. 

Dorothy's  cousin  Molle,  here  mentioned,  seems  to 
have  been  an  old  bachelor,  who  spent  his  time  at  one 
country  house  or  another,  visiting  his  country  friends  ; 
and  playing  the  bore  not  a  little,  I  should  fear,  with  his 
gossip  and  imaginary  ailments. 

Temple's  father  was  at  this  time  trying  to  arrange 
a  match  for  him  with  a  certain  Mrs.  Ch.  as  Dorothy 
calls  her.  Courtenay  thinks  she  may  be  one  Mistress 
Chambers,  an  heiress,  who  ultimately  married  Temple's 
brother  John,  and  this  conjecture  is  here  followed. 

SIR, — Your  last  letter  came  like  a  pardon  to 
one  upon  the  block.  I  had  given  over  the  hopes 
on't,  having  received  my  letters  by  the  other 
carrier,  who  was  always  [wont]  to  be  last.  The 
loss  put  me  hugely  out  of  order,  and  you  would 
have  both  pitied  and  laughed  at  me  if  you  could 
have  seen  how  woodenly  I  entertained  the  widow, 
who  came  hither  the  day  before,  and  surprised 
me  very  much.  Not  being  able  to  say  anything, 
I  got  her  to  cards,  and  there  with  a  great  deal 
of  patience  lost  my  money  to  her ; — or  rather  I 
gave  it  as  my  ransom.  In  the  midst  of  our  play, 
in  comes  my  blessed  boy  with  your  letter,  and, 
in  earnest,  I  was  not  able  to  disguise  the  joy  it 
gave  me,  though  one  was  by  that  is  not  much 
your  friend,  and  took  notice  of  a  blush  that  for 
my  life  I  could  not  keep  back.  I  put  up  the 
letter  in  my  pocket,  and  made  what  haste  I  could 
to  lose  the  money  I  had  left,  that  I  might  take 
occasion  to  go  fetch  some  more ;  but  I  did  not 


Life  at  Chicksands.  69 

make  such  haste  back  again,  I  can  assure  you.  I 
took  time  enough  to  have  coined  myself  some 
money  if  I  had  had  the  art  on't,  and  left  my  brother 
enough  to  make  all  his  addresses  to  her  if  he 
were  so  disposed.  I  know  not  whether  he  was 
pleased  or  not,  but  I  am  sure  I  was. 

You  make  so  reasonable  demands  that  'tis  not 
fit  you  should  be  denied.  You  ask  my  thoughts 
but  at  one  hour;  you  will  think  me  bountiful,  I 
hope,  when  I  shall  tell  you  that  I  know  no  hour 
when  you  have  them  not.  No,  in  earnest,  my 
very  dreams  are  yours,  and  I  have  got  such  a 
habit  of  thinking  of  you  that  any  other  thought 
intrudes  and  proves  uneasy  to  me.  I  drink 
your  health  every  morning  in  a  drench  that  would 
poison  a  horse  I  believe,  and  'tis  the  only  way 
I  have  to  persuade  myself  to  take  it.  'Tis  the 
infusion  of  steel,  and  makes  me  so  horridly  sick, 
that  every  day  at  ten  o'clock  I  am  making  my 
will  and  taking  leave  of  all  my  friends.  You  will 
believe  you  are  not  forgot  then.  They  tell  me  I 
must  take  this  ugly  drink  a  fortnight,  and  then 
begin  another  as  bad ;  but  unless  you  say  so  too, 
I  do  not  think  I  shall.  'Tis  worse  than  dying  by 
the  half. 

I  am  glad  your  father  is  so  kind  to  you.  I 
shall  not  dispute  it  with  him,  because  it  is  much 
more  in  his  power  than  in  mine,  but  I  shall  never 
yield  that  'tis  more  in  his  desire,  since  he  was 
much  pleased  with  that  which  was  a  truth  when 
you  told  it  him,  but  would  have  been  none  if  he 
had  asked  the  question  sooner.  He  thought 


7o  Letters  Jrom  Dorothy  Osborne. 

there  was  no  danger  of  you  since  you  were 
more  ignorant  and  less  concerned  in  my  being 
in  town  than  he.  If  I  were  Mrs.  Chambers,  he 
would  be  more  my  friend  ;  but,  however,  I  am 
much  his  servant  as  he  is  your  father.  I  have 
sent  you  your  book.  And  since  you  are  at  leisure 
to  consider  the  moon,  you  may  be  enough  to  read 
CUopdtre,  therefore  I  have  sent  you  three  tomes ; 
when  you  have  done  with  these  you  shall  have 
the  rest,  and  I  believe  they  will  please.  There  is 
a  story  of  Artemise  that  I  will  recommend  to  you  ; 
her  disposition  I  like  extremely,  it  has  a  great 
deal  of  practical  wit ;  and  if  you  meet  with  one 
Brittomart,  pray  send  me  word  how  you  like  him. 
I  am  not  displeased  that  my  Lord  [Lisle]  makes 
no  more  haste,  for  though  I  am  very  willing  you 
should  go  the  journey  for  many  reasons,  yet  two 
or  three  months  hence,  sure,  will  be  soon  enough 
to  visit  so  cold  a  country,  and  I  would  not  have 
you  endure  two  winters  in  one  year.  Besides,  I 
look  for  my  eldest  brother  and  cousin  Molle  here 
shortly,  and  I  should  be  glad  to  have  nobody  to 
entertain  but  you,  whilst  you  are  here.  Lord ! 
that  you  had  the  invisible  ring,  or  Fortunatus  his 
wishing  hat ;  now,  at  this  instant,  you  should  be 
here. 

My  brother  has  gone  to  wait  upon  the  widow 
homewards, — she  that  was  born  to  persecute  you 
and  I,  I  think.  She  has  so  tired  me  with  being 
here  but  two  days,  that  I  do  not  think  I  shall 
accept  of  the  offer  she  made  me  of  living  with  her 
in  case  my  father  dies  before  I  have  disposed  of 


Life  at  Chicksands.  71 

myself.  Yet  we  are  very  great  friends,  and  for 
my  comfort  she  says  she  will  come  again  about 
the  latter  end  of  June  and  stay  longer  with  me. 
My  aunt  is  still  in  town,  kept  by  her  business, 
which  I  am  afraid  will  not  go  well,  they  do  so 
delay  it ;  and  my  precious  uncle  does  so  visit  her, 
and  is  so  kind,  that  without  doubt  some  mischief 
will  follow.  Do  you  know  his  son,  my  cousin 
Harry  ?  'Tis  a  handsome  youth,  and  well-natured, 
but  such  a  goose ;  and  she  has  bred  him  so 
strangely,  that  he  needs  all  his  ten  thousand  a 
year.  I  would  fain  have  him  marry  my  Lady 
Diana,  she  was  his  mistress  when  he  was  a  boy. 
He  had  more  wit  then  than  he  has  now,  I  think, 
and  I  have  less  wit  than  he,  sure,  for  spending  my 
paper  upon  him  when  I  have  so  little.  Here  is 
hardly  room  for 

Your  affectionate 

friend  and  servant. 

Letter  n. — It  is  a  curious  thing  to  find  the  Lord 
General's  son  among  our  loyal  Dorothy's  servants ;  and 
to  find,  moreover,  that  he  will  be  as  acceptable  to 
Dorothy  as  any  other,  if  she  may  not  marry  Temple. 
Henry  Cromwell  was  Oliver  Cromwell's  second  son. 
How  Dorothy  became  acquainted  with  him  it  is  impos- 
sible to  say.  Perhaps  they  met  in  France.  He  seems 
to  have  been  entirely  unlike  his  father.  Good  Mrs. 
Hutchinson  calls  him  "  a  debauched  ungodly  Cavalier," 
with  other  similar  expressions  of  Presbyterian  abhor- 
rence; from  which  we  need  not  draw  any  unkinder  con- 
clusion than  that  he  was  no  solemn  puritanical  soldier, 
but  a  man  of  the  world,  brighter  and  more  courteous 
than  the  frequenters  of  his  father's  Council,  and  there- 


72  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

fore  more  acceptable  to  Dorothy.  He  was  born  at 
Huntingdon  in  1627,  the  year  of  Dorothy's  birth.  He 
was  captain  under  Harrison  in  1647  ;  colonel  in  Ireland 
with  his  father  in  1649;  and  married  at  Kensington 
Church,  on  May  loth,  1653,  to  Elizabeth,  daughter  of 
Sir  Francis  Russell  of  Chippenham,  Cambridgeshire. 
He  was  made  Lord-Deputy  in  Ireland  in  1657,  but  he 
wearied  of  the  work  of  transplanting  the  Irish  and 
planting  the  new  settlers,  which,  he  writes,  only  brought 
him  disquiet  of  body  and  mind.  This  led  to  his  retire- 
ment from  public  life  in  1658.  Two  years  afterwards,  at 
the  Restoration,  he  came  to  live  at  Spinney  Abbey, 
near  Isham,  Cambridgeshire,  and  died  on  the  23rd  of 
March  1673.  These  are  shortly  the  facts  which  remain 
to  us  of  the  life  of  Henry  Cromwell,  Dorothy's  favoured 
servant. 

SIR, — I  am  so  far  from  thinking  you  ill-natured 
for  wishing  I  might  not  outlive  you,  that  I  should 
not  have  thought  you  at  all  kind  if  you  had  done 
otherwise ;  no,  in  earnest,  I  was  never  yet  so  in 
love  with  my  life  but  that  I  could  have  parted 
with  it  upon  a  much  less  occasion  than  your  death, 
and  'twill  be  no  compliment  to  you  to  say  it  would 
be  very  uneasy  to  me  then,  since  'tis  not  very 
pleasant  to  me  now.  Yet  you  will  say  I  take 
great  pains  to  preserve  it,  as  ill  as  I  like  it ;  but 
no,  I'll  swear  'tis  not  that  I  intend  in  what  I  do  ; 
all  that  I  aim  at  is  but  to  keep  myself  from  prov- 
ing a  beast.  They  do  so  fright  me  with  strange 
stories  of  what  the  spleen  will  bring  me  to  in 
time,  that  I  am  kept  in  awe  with  them  like  a 
child ;  they  tell  me  'twill  not  leave  me  common 
sense,  that  I  shall  hardly  be  fit  company  for  my 


Life  at  Ckicksands.  73 

own  dogs,  and  that  it  will  end  either  in  a  stupid- 
ness  that  will  make  me  incapable  of  anything,  or 
fill  my  head  with  such  whims  as  will  make  me 
ridiculous.  To  prevent  this,  who  would  not  take 
steel  or  anything, — though  I  am  partly  of  your 
opinion  that  'tis  an  ill  kind  of  physic.  Yet  I  am 
confident  that  I  take  it  the  safest  way,  for  I  do 
not  take  the  powder,  as  many  do,  but  only  lay  a 
piece  of  steel  in  white  wine  over  night  and  drink 
the  infusion  next  morning,  which  one  would  think 
were  nothing,  and  yet  'tis  not  to  be  imagined  how 
sick  it  makes  me  for  an  hour  or  two,  and,  which  is 
the  misery,  all  that  time  one  must  be  using  some 
kind  of  exercise.  Your  fellow  -  servant  has  a 
blessed  time  on't  that  ever  you  saw.  I  make  her 
play  at  shuttlecock  with  me,  and  she  is  the  veriest 
bungler  at  it  ever  you  saw.  Then  am  I  ready  to 
beat  her  with  the  battledore,  and  grow  so  peevish 
as  I  grow  sick,  that  I'll  undertake  she  wishes  there 
were  no  steel  in  England.  But  then  to  recom- 
pense the  morning,  I  am  in  good  humour  all  the 
day  after  for  joy  that  I  am  well  again.  I  am  told 
'twill  do  me  good,  and  am  content  to  believe  it;  if 
it  does  not,  I  am  but  where  I  was. 

I  do  not  use  to  forget  my  old  acquaintances. 
Almanzor  is  as  fresh  in  my  memory  as  if  I  had 
visited  his  tomb  but  yesterday,  though  it  be  at 
least  seven  year  agone  since.  You  will  believe  I 
had  not  been  used  to  great  afflictions  when  I  made 
his  story  such  a  one  to  me,  as  I  cried  an  hour 
together  for  him,  and  was  so  angry  with  Alcidiana 
that  for  my  life  I  could  never  love  her  after  it. 


74  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

You  do  not  tell  me  whether  you  received  the 
books  I  sent  you,  but  I  will  hope  you  did,  because 
you  say  nothing  to  the  contrary.  They  are  my 
dear  Lady  Diana's,  and  therefore  I  am  much 
concerned  that  they  should  be  safe.  And  now  I 
speak  of  her,  she  is  acquainted  with  your  aunt,  my 
Lady  B.,  and  says  all  that  you  say  of  her.  If 
her  niece  has  so  much  wit,  will  you  not  be 
persuaded  to  like  her ;  or  say  she  has  not  quite 
so  much,  may  not  her  fortune  make  it  up  ?  In 
earnest,  I  know  not  what  to  say,  but  if  your 
father  does  not  use  all  his  kindness  and  all  his 
power  to  make  you  consider  your  own  advantage, 
he  is  not  like  other  fathers.  Can  you  imagine 
that  he  that  demands  ^5000  besides  the  rever- 
sion of  an  estate  will  like  bare  ^4000  ?  Such 
miracles  are  seldom  seen,  and  you  must  prepare 
to  suffer  a  strange  persecution  unless  you  grow 
conformable ;  therefore  consider  what  you  do,  'tis 
the  part  of  a  friend  to  advise  you.  I  could  say  a 
great  deal  to  this  purpose,  and  tell  you  that  'tis 
not  discreet  to  refuse  a  good  offer,  nor  safe  to 
trust  wholly  to  your  own  judgment  in  your  dis- 
posal. I  was  never  better  provided  in  my  life  for 
a  grave  admonishing  discourse.  Would  you  had 
heard  how  I  have  been  catechized  for  you,  and 
seen  how  soberly  I  sit  and  answer  to  interroga- 
tories. Would  you  think  that  upon  examination 
it  is  found  that  you  are  not  an  indifferent  person 
to  me  ?  But  the  mischief  is,  that  what  my  inten- 
tions or  resolutions  are,  is  not  to  be  discovered, 
though  much  pains  has  been  taken  to  collect  all 


Life  at  Chicksands.  75 

scattering  circumstances ;  and  all  the  probable 
conjectures  that  can  be  raised  from  thence  has 
been  urged,  to  see  if  anything  would  be  confessed. 
And  all  this  done  with  so  much  ceremony  and 
compliment,  so  many  pardons  asked  for  under- 
taking to  counsel  or  inquire,  and  so  great  kind- 
ness and  passion  for  all  my  interests  professed, 
that  I  cannot  but  take  it  well,  though  I  am  very 
weary  on't.  You  are  spoken  of  with  the  reverence 
due  to  a  person  that  I  seem  to  like,  and  for  as 
much  as  they  know  of  you,  you  do  deserve  a  very 
good  esteem ;  but  your  fortune  and  mine  can 
never  agree,  and,  in  plain  terms,  we  forfeit  our 
discretions  and  run  wilftilly  upon  our  own  ruins  if 
there  be  such  a  thought.  To  all  this  I  make  no 
reply,  but  that  if  they  will  needs  have  it  that  I 
am  not  without  kindness  for  you,  they  must  con- 
clude withal  that  'tis  no  part  of  my  intention  to 
ruin  you,  and  so  the  conference  breaks  up  for  that 
time.  All  this  is  [from]  my  friend,  that  is  not 
yours ;  and  the  gentleman  that  came  up-stairs  in 
a  basket,  I  could  tell  him  that  he  spends  his 
breath  to  very  little  purpose,  and  has  but  his 
labour  for  his  pains.  Without  his  precepts  my 
own  judgment  would  preserve  me  from  doing 
anything  that  might  be  prejudicial  to  you  or 
unjustifiable  to  the  world ;  but  if  these  be  secured, 
nothing  can  alter  the  resolution  I  have  taken  of 
settling  my  whole  stock  of  happiness  upon  the 
affection  of  a  person  that  is  dear  to  me,  whose 
kindness  I  shall  infinitely  prefer  before  any  other 
consideration  whatsoever,  and  I  shall  not  blush  to 


76  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

tell  you  that  you  have  made  the  whole  world 
besides  so  indifferent  to  me  that,  if  I  cannot  be 
yours,  they  may  dispose  of  me  how  they  please. 
Henry  Cromwell  will  be  as  acceptable  to  me  as 
any  one  else.  If  I  may  undertake  to  counsel,  I 
think  you  shall  do  well  to  comply  with  your  father 
as  far  as  possible,  and  not  to  discover  any  aver- 
sion to  what  he  desires  further  than  you  can  give 
reason  for.  What  his  disposition  may  be  I  know 
not ;  but  'tis  that  of  many  parents  to  judge  their 
children's  dislikes  to  be  an  humour  of  approving 
nothing  that  is  chosen  for  them,  which  many 
times  makes  them  take  up  another  of  denying 
their  children  all  they  choose  for  themselves.  I 
find  I  am  in  the  humour  of  talking  wisely  if  my 
paper  would  give  me  leave.  'Tis  great  pity  here 
is  room  for  no  more  but— 

Your  faithful  friend  and  servant. 

Letter  12. 

SIR, — There  shall  be  two  posts  this  week,  for 
my  brother  sends  his  groom  up,  and  I  am  re- 
solved to  make  some  advantage  of  it.  Pray, 
what  the  paper  denied  me  in  your  last,  let  me 
receive  by  him.  Your  fellow-servant  is  a  sweet 
jewel  to  tell  tales  of  me.  The  truth  is,  I  cannot 
deny  but  that  I  have  been  very  careless  of 
myself,  but,  alas !  who  would  have  been  other  ? 
I  never  thought  my  life  worth  my  care  whilst 
nobody  was  concerned  in't  but  myself;  now  I 
shall  look  upon't  as  something  that  you  would 


Life  at  Chicksands.  77 

not  lose,  and  therefore  shall  endeavour  to  keep 
it  for  you.  But  then  you  must  return  my  kind- 
ness with  the  same  care  of  a  life  that's  much 
dearer  to  me.  I  shall  not  be  so  unreasonable  as 
to  desire  that,  for  my  satisfaction,  you  should 
deny  yourself  a  recreation  that  is  pleasing  to  you, 
and  very  innocent,  sure,  when  'tis  not  used  in 
excess,  but  I  cannot  consent  you  should  disorder 
yourself  with  it,  and  Jane  was  certainly  in  the 
right  when  she  told  you  I  would  have  chid  if  I 
had  seen  you  so  endanger  a  health  that  I  am  so 
much  concerned  in.  But  for  what  she  tell  you 
of  my  melancholy  you  must  not  believe ;  she 
thinks  nobody  in  good  humour  unless  they'laugh 
perpetually,  as  Nan  and  she  does,  which  I  was 
never  given  to  much,  and  now  I  have  been  so 
long  accustomed  to  my  own  natural  dull  humour 
that  nothing  can  alter  it.  'Tis  not  that  I  am  sad 
(for  as  long  as  you  and  the  rest  of  my  friends  are 
well),  I  thank  God  I  have  no  occasion  to  be  so, 
but  I  never  appear  to  be  very  merry,  and  if  I  had 
all  that  I  could  wish  for  in  the  world,  I  do  not 
think  it  would  make  any  visible  change  in  my 
humour.  And  yet  with  all  my  gravity  I  could 
not  but  laugh  at  your  encounter  in  the  Park, 
though  I  was  not  pleased  that  you  should  leave 
a  fair  lady  and  go  lie  upon  the  cold  ground. 
That  is  full  as  bad  as  overheating  yourself  at 
tennis,  and  therefore  remember  'tis  one  of  the 
things  you  are  forbidden.  You  have  reason  to 
think  your  father  kind,  and  I  have  reason  to 
think  him  very  civil ;  all  his  scruples  are  very 


78  Letters  from  Dorothy  O shorn e. 

just  ones,  but  such  as  time  and  a  little  good 
fortune  (if  we  were  either  of  us  lucky  to  it)  might 
satisfy.  He  may  be  confident  I  can  never  think 
of  disposing  myself  without  my  father's  consent ; 
and  though  he  has  left  it  more  in  my  power  than 
almost  anybody  leaves  a  daughter,  yet  certainly 
I  were  the  worst  natured  person  in  the  world  if 
his  kindness  were  not  a  greater  tie  upon  me  than 
any  advantage  he  could  have  reserved.  Besides 
that,  'tis  my  duty,  from  which  nothing  can  ever 
tempt  me,  nor  could  you  like  it  in  me  if  I  should 
do  otherwise,  'twould  make  me  unworthy  of 
your  esteem  ;  but  if  ever  that  may  be  obtained,  or 
I  left  free,  and  you  in  the  same  condition,  all  the 
advantages  of  fortune  or  person  imaginable  met 
together  in  one  man  should  not  be  preferred 
before  you.  I  think  I  cannot  leave  you  better 
than  with  this  assurance.  'Tis  very  late,  and 
having  been  abroad  all  this  day,  I  knew  not  till 
e'en  now  of  this  messenger.  Good-night  to  you. 
There  need  be  no  excuse  for  the  conclusion  of 
your  letter.  Nothing  can  please  me  better. 
Once  more  good-night.  I  am  half  in  a  dream 
already. 

Your 

Letter  13. — There  is  some  allusion  here  to  an  in- 
constant lover  of  my  Lady  Diana  Rich,  who  seems  to 
have  deserted  his  mistress  on  account  of  the  sore  eyes 
with  which,  Dorothy  told  us  in  a  former  letter,  her 
friend  was  afflicted. 

I  cannot  find  any  account  of  the  great  shop  above 
the  Exchange,  "  The  Flower  Pott."  There  were  two  or 


Life  at  Chicksands.  79 

three  "  Flower  Pots "  in  London  at  this  time,  one  in 
Leadenhall  Street  and  another  in  St.  James'  Market. 
An  interesting  account  of  the  old  sign  is  given  in  a 
work  on  London  tradesmen's  tokens,  in  which  it  is 
said  to  be  "  derived  from  the  earlier  representations  of 
the  salutations  of  the  angel  Gabriel  to  the  Virgin  Mary, 
in  which  either  lilies  were  placed  in  his  hand,  or  they 
were  set  as  an  accessory  in  a  vase.  As  Popery  declined, 
the  angel  disappeared,  and  the  lily-pot  became  a  vase 
of  flowers ;  subsequently  the  Virgin  was  omitted,  and 
there  remained  only  the  vase  of  flowers.  Since,  to  make 
things  more  unmistakeable,  two  debonair  gentlemen, 
with  hat  in  hand,  have  superseded  the  floral  elegancies 
of  the  olden  time,  and  the  poetry  of  the  art  seems  lost." 

SIR, — I  am  glad  you  'scaped  a  beating,  but,  in 
earnest,  would  it  had  lighted  on  my  brother's 
groom.  I  think  I  should  have  beaten  him  myself 
if  I  had  been  able.  I  have  expected  your  letter 
all  this  day  with  the  greatest  impatience  that  was 
possible,  and  at  last  resolved  to  go  out  and  meet 
the  fellow ;  and  when  I  came  down  to  the  stables, 
I  found  him  come,  had  set  up  his  horse,  and  was 
sweeping  the  stable  in  great  order.  I  could  not 
imagine  him  so  very  a  beast  as  to  think  his  horses 
were  to  be  serv'd  before  me,  and  therefore  was 
presently  struck  with  an  apprehension  he  had  no 
letter  for  me :  it  went  cold  to  my  heart  as  ice,  and 
hardly  left  me  courage  enough  to  ask  him  the 
question ;  but  when  he  had  drawled  it  out  that  he 
thought  there  was  a  letter  for  me  in  his  bag,  I 
quickly  made  him  leave  his  broom.  'Twas  well 
'tis  a  dull  fellow,  he  could  not  [but]  have  discern'd 
else  that  I  was  strangely  overjoyed  with  it,  and 


8o  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osbornc. 

earnest  to  have  it;  for  though  the  poor  fellow 
made  what  haste  he  could  to  untie  his  bag,  I  did 
nothing  but  chide  him  for  being  so  slow.  Last 
I  had  it,  and,  in  earnest,  I  know  not  whether  an 
entire  diamond  of  the  bigness  on't  would  have 
pleased  me  half  so  well ;  if  it  would,  it  must  be 
only  out  of  this  consideration,  that  such  a  jewel 
would  make  me  rich  enough  to  dispute  you  with 
Mrs.  Chambers,  and  perhaps  make  your  father 
like  me  as  well.  I  like  him,  I'll  swear,  and 
extremely  too,  for  being  so  calm  in  a  business 
where  his  desires  were  so  much  crossed.  Either 
he  has  a  great  power  over  himself,  or  you  have 
a  great  interest  in  him,  or  both.  If  you  are 
pleased  it  should  end  thus,  I  cannot  dislike  it;  but 
if  it  would  have  been  happy  for  you,  I  should 
think  myself  strangely  unfortunate  in  being  the 
cause  that  it  went  not  further.  I  cannot  say  that 
I  prefer  your  interest  before  my  own,  because  all 
yours  are  so  much  mine  that  'tis  impossible  for 
me  to  be  happy  if  you  are  not  so ;  but  if  they 
could  be  divided  I  am  certain  I  should.  And 
though  you  reproached  me  with  unkindness  for 
advising  you  not  to  refuse  a  good  offer,  yet  I 
shall  not  be  discouraged  from  doing  it  again  when 
there  is  occasion,  for  I  am  resolved  to  be  your 
friend  whether  you  will  or  no.  And,  for  example, 
though  I  know  you  do  not  need  my  counsel,  yet 
I  cannot  but  tell  you  that  I  think  'twere  very  well 
that  you  took  some  care  to  make  my  Lady  B. 
your  friend,  and  oblige  her  by  your  civilities  to 
believe  that  you  were  sensible  of  the  favour  was 


Life  at  Chicksands.  8 1 

offered  you,  though  you  had  not  the  grace  to 
make  good  use  on't  In  very  good  earnest  now, 
she  is  a  woman  (by  all  that  I  have  heard  of  her) 
that  one  would  not  lose ;  besides  that,  'twill  be- 
come you  to  make  some  satisfaction  for  downright 
refusing  a  young  lady — 'twas  unmercifully  done. 

Would  to  God  you  would  leave  that  trick  of 
making  excuses !  Can  you  think  it  necessary  to 
me,  or  believe  that  your  letters  can  be  so  long  as 
to  make  them  unpleasing  to  me  ?  Are  mine  so  to 
you  ?  If  they  are  not,  yours  never  will  be  so  to  me. 
You  see  I  say  anything  to  you,  out  of  a  belief  that, 
though  my  letters  were  more  impertinent  than  they 
are,  you  would  not  be  without  them  nor  wish  them 
shorter.  Why  should  you  be  less  kind  ?  If  your 
fellow-servant  has  been  with  you,  she  has  told  you 
I  part  with  her  but  for  her  advantage.  That  I 
shall  always  be  willing  to  do ;  but  whensoever  she 
shall  think  fit  to  serve  again,  and  is  not  provided 
of  a  better  mistress,  she  knows  where  to  find  me. 

I  have  sent  you  the  rest  of  Cltopdtre,  pray  keep 
them  all  in  your  hands,  and  the  next  week  I  will 
send  you  a  letter  and  directions  where  you  shall 
deliver  that  and  the  books  for  my  lady.  Is  it 
possible  that  she  can  be  indifferent  to  anybody  ? 
Take  heed  of  telling  me  such  stories  ;  if  all  those 
excellences  she  is  rich  in  cannot  keep  warm  a 
passion  without  the  sunshine  of  her  eyes,  what 
are  poor  people  to  expect ;  and  were  it  not  a 
strange  vanity  in  me  to  believe  yours  can  be  long- 
lived  ?  It  would  be  very  pardonable  in  you  to 
change,  but,  sure,  in  him  'tis  a  mark  of  so  great 

F 


82  Letters  from  Dorothy  O shorn e. 

inconstancy  as  shows  him  of  an  humour  that 
nothing  can  fix.  When  you  go  into  the  Ex- 
change, pray  call  at  the  great  shop  above,  "  The 
Flower  Pott."  I  spoke  to  H earns,  the  man  of 
the  shop,  when  I  was  in  town,  for  a  quart  of 
orange-flower  water  ;  he  had  none  that  was  good 
then,  but  promised  to  get  me  some.  Pray  put 
him  in  mind  of  it,  and  let  him  show  it  you  before 
he  sends  it  me,  for  I  will  not  altogether  trust  to 
his  honesty ;  you  see  I  make  no  scruple  of  giving 
you  little  idle  commissions,  'tis  a  freedom  you 
allow  me,  and  that  I  should  be  glad  you  would 
take.  The  Frenchman  that  set  my  seals  lives 
between  Salisbury  House  and  the  Exchange,  at 
a  house  that  was  not  finished  when  I  was  there, 
and  the  master  of  the  shop,  his  name  is  Walker, 
he  made  me  pay  503.  for  three,  but  'twas  too 
dear.  You  will  meet  with  a  story  in  these  parts 
of  Cle"opdtre  that  pleased  me  more  than  any  that 
ever  I  read  in  my  life ;  'tis  of  one  Delie,  pray  give 
•me  your  opinion  of  her  and  her  prince.  This 
letter  is  writ  in  great  haste,  as  you  may  see ;  'tis 
my  brother's  sick  day,  and  I'm  not  willing  to 
leave  him  long  alone.  I  forgot  to  tell  you  in  my 
last  that  he  was  come  hither  to  try  if  he  can  lose 
an  ague  here  that  he  got  in  Gloucestershire.  He 
asked  me  for  you  very  kindly,  and  if  he  knew  I 
writ  to  you  I  should  have  something  to  say  from 
him  besides  what  I  should  say  for  myself  if  I  had 
room. 

Yrs. 


Life  at  Chicksands.  83 

Letter  14. — This  letter  contains  the  most  interesting 
political  reference  of  the  whole  series.  Either  Temple 
has  written  Dorothy  an  account  of  Cromwell's  dissolv- 
ing the  Long  Parliament,  or  perhaps  some  news-letter 
has  found  its  way  to  Chicksands  with  the  astounding 
news.  All  England  is  filled  with  intense  excitement 
over  Cromwell's  coup  d'etat ;  and  it  cannot  be  unin- 
teresting to  quote  a  short  contemporary  account  of 
the  business.  Algernon  Sydney's  father,  the  Earl  of 
Leicester,  whose  journal  has  already  been  quoted,  under 
date  Wednesday,  April  2Oth,  1653,  writes  as  follows: — 
"  My  Lord  General  came  into  the  House  clad  in  plain 
black  clothes  with  grey  worsted  stockings,  and  sat  down, 
as  he  used  to  do,  in  an  ordinary  place."  Then  he  began 
to  speak,  and  presently  "  he  put  on  his  hat,  went  out  of 
his  place,  and  walked  up  and  down  the  stage  or  floor  in 
the  midst  of  the  House,  with  his  hat  on  his  head,  and 
chid  them  soundly."  After  this  had  gone  on  for  some 
time,  Colonel  Harrison  was  called  in  to  remove  the 
Speaker,  which  he  did;  "and  it  happened  that  Alger- 
non Sydney  sat  next  to  the  Speaker  on  the  right  hand. 
The  General  said  to  Harrison,  '  Put  him  out ! ' 

"  Harrison  spake  to  Sydney  to  go  out,  but  he  said  he 
would  not  go  out  and  waited  still. 

"  The  General  said  again,  '  Put  him  out ! '  Then 
Harrison  and  Wortley  [Worsley]  put  their  hands  upon 
Sydney's  shoulders  as  if  they  would  force  him  to  go  out, 
Then  he  rose  and  went  towards  the  door." 

Such  is  the  story  which  reaches  Dorothy,  and  startles 
all  England  at  this  date. 

SIR, — That  you  may  be  sure  it  was  a  dream 
that  I  writ  that  part  of  my  letter  in,  I  do  not  now 
remember  what  it  was  I  writ,  but  seems  it  was 
very  kind,  and  possibly  you  owe  the  discovery 
on't  to  my  being  asleep.  But  I  do  not  repent  it, 


84  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

for  I  should  not  love  you  if  I  did  not  think  you 
discreet  enough  to  be  trusted  with  the  knowledge 
of  all  my  kindness.  Therefore  'tis  not  that  I 
desire  to  hide  it  from  you,  but  that  I  do  not  love 
to  tell  it ;  and  perhaps  if  you  could  read  my  heart, 
I  should  make  less  scruple  of  your  seeing  on't 
there  than  in  my  letters. 

I  can  easily  guess  who  the  pretty  young  lady  is, 
for  there  are  but  two  in  England  of  that  fortune, 
and  they  are  sisters,  but  I  am  to  seek  who  the 
gallant  should  be.  If  it  be  no  secret,  you  may  tell 
me.  However,  I  shall  wish  him  all  good  success 
if  he  be  your  friend,  as  I  suppose  he  is  by  his  con- 
fidence in  you.  If  it  be  neither  of  the  Spencers, 
I  wish  it  were ;  I  have  not  seen  two  young  men 
that  looked  as  if  they  deserved  better  fortunes  so 
much  as  those  brothers. 

But,  bless  me,  what  will  become  of  us  all  now  ? 
Is  not  this  a  strange  turn  ?  What  does  my  Lord 
Lisle  ?  Sure  this  will  at  least  defer  your  journey  ? 
Tell  me  what  I  must  think  on't ;  whether  it  be 
better  or  worse,  or  whether  you  are  at  all  con- 
cern'd  in't  ?  For  if  you  are  not  I  am  not,  only  if 
I  had  been  so  wise  as  to  have  taken  hold  of  the 
offer  was  made  me  by  Henry  Cromwell,  I  might 
have  been  in  a  fair  way  of  preferment,  for,  sure, 
they  will  be  greater  now  than  ever.  Is  it  true  that 
Algernon  Sydney  was  so  unwilling  to  leave  the 
House,  that  the  General  was  fain  to  take  the 
pains  to  turn  him  out  himself?  Well,  'tis  a 
pleasant  world  this.  If  Mr.  Pirn  were  alive  again, 
I  wonder  what  he  would  think  of  these  proceed- 


Life  at  Chicksands.  85 

ings,  and  whether  this  would  appear  so  great  a 
breach  of  the  Privilege  of  Parliament  as  the 
demanding  the  5  members  ?  But  I  shall  talk 
treason  by  and  by  if  I  do  not  look  to  myself. 
'Tis  safer  talking  of  the  orange-flower  water  you 
sent  me.  The  carrier  has  given  me  a  great 
charge  to  tell  you  that  it  came  safe,  and  that 
I  must  do  him  right.  As  you  say,  'tis  not  the 
best  I  have  seen,  nor  the  worst. 

I  shall  expect  your  Diary  next  week,  though 
this  will  be  but  a  short  letter  :  you  may  allow  me 
to  make  excuses  too  sometimes ;  but,  seriously, 
my  father  is  now  so  continuously  ill,  that  I  have 
hardly  time  for  anything.  'Tis  but  an  ague  that 
he  has,  but  yet  I  am  much  afraid  that  is  more 
than  his  age  and  weakness  will  be  able  to  bear ; 
he  keeps  his  bed,  and  never  rises  but  to  have  it 
made,  and  most  times  faints  with  that.  You 
ought  in  charity  to  write  as  much  as  you  can, 
for,  in  earnest,  my  life  here  since  my  father's 
sickness  is  so  sad  that,  to  another  humour  than 
mine,  it  would  be  unsupportable  ;  but  I  have  been 
so  used  to  misfortunes,  that  I  cannot  be  much 
surprised  with  them,  though  perhaps  I  am  as 
sensible  of  them  as  another.  I'll  leave  you,  for 
I  find  these  thoughts  begin  to  put  me  in  ill 
humour;  farewell,  may  you  be  ever  happy.  If 
I  am  so  at  all,  it  is  in  being 

Your 

Letter  15.  —  What  Temple  had  written  about  Mr. 
Arbry's  prophecy  and  "  the  falling  down  of  the  form/ 


86  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

we  cannot  know.  Mr.  Arbry  was  probably  William 
Erbury,  vicar  of  St  Mary's,  Cardiff,  a  noted  schismatic. 
He  is  said  to  have  been  a  "  holy,  harmless  man,"  but 
incurred  both  the  hate  and  ridicule  of  his  opponents. 
Many  of  his  tracts  are  still  extant,  and  they  contain 
extravagant  prophecies  couched  in  the  peculiar  phrase- 
ology of  the  day. 

The  celebrated  Sir  Samuel  Luke  was  a  near  neighbour 
of  the  Osbornes,  and  Mr.  Luke  was  one  of  his  numerous 
family.  Sir  Samuel  was  Lord  of  the  Manor  of  Hawnes, 
and  in  the  Hawnes  parish  register  there  are  notices  of 
the  christenings  of  his  sons  and  daughters.  Sir  Samuel 
was  not  only  a  colonel  in  the  Parliament  Army,  but 
Scout-Master-General  in  the  counties  of  Bedford  and 
Surrey.  Samuel  Butler,  the  author  of  Hndibras,  lived 
with  Sir  Samuel  Luke  as  his  secretary,  at  some  date 
prior  to  the  Restoration ;  and  Dr.  Grey,  his  learned 
editor,  believes  that  he  wrote  Hudibras  about  that  time, 
"because  he  had  then  the  opportunity  to  converse 
with  those  living  characters  of  rebellion,  nonsense,  and 
hypocrisy  which  he  so  lively  and  pathetically  exposes 
throughout  the  whole- work."  Sir  Samuel  is  said  himself 
to  be  the  original  "  Hudibras  ; "  and  if  Dr.  Grey's  con- 
jecture on  this  matter  is  a  right  one,  we  have  already 
in  our  minds  a  very  complete  portrait  of  Dorothy's 
neighbour. 

The  old  ballad  that  Dorothy  encloses  to  her  lover 
has  not  been  preserved  with  her  letter.  If  it  is  older 
than  the  ballad  of  "The  Lord  of  Lome,"  it  must  have 
been  composed  before  Henry  VIII.'s  reign ;  for 
Edward  Guilpin,  in  his  Skialethia  [1598],  speaks  of 

Th'  olde  ballad  of  the  Lord  of  Lome, 

Whose  last  line  in  King  Harrie's  day  was  borne. 

"  The  Lord  of  Learne  "  (this  was  the  old  spelling)  may 
be  found  in  Bishop  Percy's  well-known  collection  of 
Ballads  and  Romances. 


Life  at  Chicksands.  87 

SIR, — You  must  pardon  me,  I  could  not  burn 
your  other  letter  for  my  life  ;  I  was  so  pleased  to 
see  I  had  so  much  to  read,  and  so  sorry  I  had 
done  so  soon,  that  I  resolved  to  begin  them  again, 
and  had  like  to  have  lost  my  dinner  by  it.  I 
know  not  what  humour  you  were  in  when  you 
writ  it ;  but  Mr.  Arbry's  prophecy  and  the  falling 
down  of  the  form  did  a  little  discompose  my 
gravity.  But  I  quickly  recovered  myself  with 
thinking  that  you  deserved  to  be  chid  for  going 
where  you  knew  you  must  of  necessity  lose  your 
time.  In  earnest,  I  had  a  little  scruple  when  I 
went  with  you  thither,  and  but  that  I  was  assured 
it  was  too  late  to  go  any  whither  else,  and  be- 
lieved it  better  to  hear  an  ill  sermon  than  none,  I 
think  I  should  have  missed  his  Belles  remarques. 
You  had  repented  you,  I  hope,  of  that  and  all 
other  your  faults  before  you  thought  of  dying. 

What  a  satisfaction  you  had  found  out  to  make 
me  for  the  injuries  you  say  you  have  done  me ! 
And  yet  I  cannot  tell  neither  (though  'tis  not  the 
remedy  I  should  choose)  whether  that  were  not 
a  certain  one  for  all  my  misfortunes ;  for,  sure,  I 
should  have  nothing  then  to  persuade  me  to  stay 
longer  where  they  grow,  and  I  should  quickly 
take  a  resolution  of  leaving  them  and  the  world 
at  once.  I  agree  with  you,  too,  that  I  do  not  see 
any  great  likelihood  of  the  change  of  our  fortunes, 
and  that  we  have  much  more  to  wish  than  to 
hope  for ;  but  'tis  so  common  a  calamity  that 
I  dare  not  murmur  at  it ;  better  people  have 
endured  it,  and  I  can  give  no  reason  why  (almost) 


88  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

all  are  denied  the  satisfaction  of  disposing  them- 
selves to  their  own  desires,  but  that  it  is  a 
happiness  too  great  for  this  world,  and  might 
endanger  one's  forgetting  the  next ;  whereas  if  we 
are  crossed  in  that  which  only  can  make  the 
world  pleasing  to  us,  we  are  quickly  tired  with 
the  length  of  our  journey  and  the  disquiet  of  our 
inns,  and  long  to  be  at  home.  One  would  think 
it  were  I  who  had  heard  the  three  sermons  and 
were  trying  to  make  a  fourth ;  these  are  truths 
that  might  become  a  pulpit  better  than  Mr. 
Arbry's  predictions.  But  lest  you  should  think 
I  have  as  many  worms  in  my  head  as  he,  I'll  give 
over  in  time,  and  tell  you  how  far  Mr.  Luke  and 
I  are  acquainted.  He  lives  within  three  or  four 
miles  of  me,  and  one  day  that  I  had  been  to  visit 
a  lady  that  is  nearer  him  than  me,  as  I  came  back 
I  met  a  coach  with  some  company  in't  that  I 
knew,  and  thought  myself  obliged  to  salute.  We 
all  lighted  and  met,  and  I  found  more  than  I  looked 
for  by  two  damsels  and  their  squires.  I  was  after- 
wards told  they  were  of  the  Lukes,  and  possibly 
this  man  might  be  there,  or  else  I  never  saw  him ; 
for  since  these  times  we  have  had  no  commerce 
with  that  family,  but  have  kept  at  great  distance, 
as  having  on  several  occasions  been  disobliged 
by  them.  But  of  late,  I  know  not  how,  Sir  Sam 
has  grown  so  kind  as  to  send  to  me  for  some 
things  he  desired  out  of  this  garden,  and  withal 
made  the  offer  of  what  was  in  his,  which  I  had 
reason  to  take  for  a  high  favour,  for  he  is  a  nice 
florist;  and  since  this  we  are  insensibly  come  to  as 


Life  at  Chicksands.  89 

good  degrees  of  civility  for  one  another  as  can  be 
expected  from  people  that  never  meet. 

Who  those  demoiselles  should  be  that  were  at 
Heamses  I  cannot  imagine,  and  I  know  so  few 
that  are  concerned  in  me  or  my  name  that  I 
admire  you  should  meet  with  so  many  that  seem 
to  be  acquainted  with  it.  Sure,  if  you  had  liked 
them  you  would  not  have  been  so  sullen,  and  a 
less  occasion  would  have  served  to  make  you 
entertain  their  discourse  if  they  had  been  hand- 
some. And  yet  I  know  no  reason  I  have  to 
believe  that  beauty  is  any  argument  to  make  you 
like  people ;  unless  I  had  more  on't  myself.  But 
be  it  what  it  will  that  displeased  you,  I  am  glad 
they  did  not  fright  you  away  before  you  had  the 
orange-flower  water,  for  it  is  very  good,  and  I  am 
so  sweet  with  it  a  days  that  I  despise  roses. 
When  I  have  given  you  humble  thanks  for  it,  I 
mean  to  look  over  your  other  letter  and  take  the 
heads,  and  to  treat  of  them  in  order  as  my  time 
and  your  patience  shall  give  me  leave. 

And  first  for  my  Sheriff,  let  me  desire  you  to 
believe  he  has  more  courage  than  to  die  upon  a 
denial.  No  (thanks  be  to  God !),  none  of  my 
servants  are  given  to  that;  I  hear  of  many  every 
day  that  do  marry,  but  of  none  that  do  worse. 
My  brother  sent  me  word  this  week  that  my 
fighting  servant  is  married  too,  and  with  the  news 
this  ballad,  which  was  to  be  sung  in  the  grave 
that  you  dreamt  of,  I  think  ;  but  because  you  tell 
me  I  shall  not  want  company  then,  you  may  dis- 
pose of  this  piece  of  poetry  as  you  please  when 


9O  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

you  have  sufficiently  admired  with  me  where 
he  found  it  out,  for  'tis  much  older  than  that  of 
my  "  Lord  of  Lome."  You  are  altogether  in  the 
right  that  my  brother  will  never  be  at  quiet  till  he 
sees  me  disposed  of,  but  he  does  not  mean  to  lose 
me  by  it ;  he  knows  that  if  I  were  married  at  this 
present,  I  should  not  be  persuaded  to  leave  my 
father  as  long  as  he  lives ;  and  when  this  house 
breaks  up,  he  is  resolved  to  follow  me  if  he  can, 
which  he  thinks  he  might  better  do  to  a  house 
where  I  had  some  power  than  where  I  am  but 
upon  courtesy  myself.  Besides  that,  he  thinks  it 
would  be  to  my  advantage  to  be  well  bestowed, 
and  by  that  he  understands  richly.  He  is  much  of 
your  sister's  humour,  and  many  times  wishes  me  a 
husband  that  loved  me  as  well  as  he  does  (though 
he  seems  to  doubt  the  possibility  on't),  but  never 
desires  that  I  should  love  that  husband  with  any 
passion,  and  plainly  tells  me  so.  He  says  it 
would  not  be  so  well  for  him,  nor  perhaps  for  me, 
that  I  should;  for  he  is  of  opinion  that  all  passions 
have  more  of  trouble  than  satisfaction  in  them, 
and  therefore  they  are  happiest  that  have  least  of 
them.  You  think  him  kind  from  a  letter  that 
you  met  with  of  his  ;  sure,  there  was  very  little 
of  anything  in  that,  or  else  I  should  not  have 
employed  it  to  wrap  a  book  up.  But,  seriously, 
I  many  times  receive  letters  from  him,  that  were 
they  seen  without  an  address  to  me  or  his  name, 
nobody  would  believe  they  were  from  a  brother ; 
and  I  cannot  but  tell  him  sometimes  that,  sure, 
he  mistakes  and  sends  me  letters  that  were  meant 


Life  at  Chicksands.  91 

to  his  mistress;  till  he  swears  to  me  that  he  has 
none. 

Next  week  my  persecution  begins  again  ;  he 
comes  down,  and  my  cousin  Molle  is  already 
cured  of  his  imaginary  dropsy,  and  means  to  meet 
here.  I  shall  be  baited  most  sweetly,  but  sure 
they  will  not  easily  make  me  consent  to  make  my 
life  unhappy  to  satisfy  their  importunity.  I  was 
born  to  be  very  happy  or  very  miserable,  I  know 
not  which,  but  I  am  very  certain  that  you  will 
never  read  half  this  letter  'tis  so  scribbled  ;  but  'tis 
no  matter,  'tis  not  much  worth  it. 

Your  most  faithful  friend  and  servant. 

Letter  16. — The  trial  of  Lord  Chandos  for  killing  Mr. 
Compton  in  a  duel  was,  just  at  this  moment,  exciting 
the  fickle  attention  of  the  town,  which  had  probably  said 
its  say  on  the  subject  of  Cromwell's  coup  tfttat,  and 
was  only  too  ready  for  another  subject  of  conversation. 
The  trial  is  not  reported  among  the  State  Trials,  but 
our  observant  friend  the  Earl  of  Leicester  has  again 
taken  note  of  the  matter  in  his  journal,  and  can  give  us 
at  least  his  own  ideas  of  the  trial  and  its  political  and 
social  importance.  Under  date  May  1653,  he  writes  : — 
"  Towards  the  end  of  Easter  Term,  the  Lord  Chandos, 
for  killing  in  duel  Mr.  Compton  the  year  before,"  that  is 
to  say,  in  March  ;  the  new  year  begins  on  March  25th, 
"  and  the  Lord  Arundel  of  Wardour,  one  of  his  seconds, 
were  brought  to  their  trial  for  their  lives  at  the  Upper 
Bench  in  Westminster  Hall,  when  it  was  found  man- 
slaughter only,  as  by  a  jury  at  Kingston-upon-Thames 
it  had  been  found  formerly.  The  Lords  might  have 
had  the  privilege  of  peerage  (Justice  Rolles  being 
Lord  Chief  Justice),  but  they  declined  it  by  the  advice 
of  Mr.  Maynard  and  the  rest  of  their  counsel,  least  by 


92  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

that  means  the  matter  might  have  been  brought  about 
again,  therefore  they  went  upon  the  former  verdict  of 
manslaughter,  and  so  were  acquitted  ;  yet  to  be  burned 
in  the  hand,  which  was  done  to  them  both  a  day  or  two 
after,  but  very  favourably."  These  were  the  first  peers 
that  had  been  burned  in  the  hand,  and  the  democratic 
Earl  of  Leicester  expresses  at  the  event  some  satisfaction, 
and  derives  from  the  whole  circumstances  of  the  trial 
comfortable  assurance  of  the  power  and  stability  of  the 
Government.  The  Earl,  however,  misleads  us  in  one 
particular.  Lord  Arundel  was  Henry  Compton's  second. 
He  had  married  Cecily  Compton,  and  naturally  enough 
acted  as  his  brother-in-law's  second.  It  is  also  interest- 
ing to  remember  that  Lord  Chandos  was  known  to  the 
world  as  something  other  than  a  duellist.  He  was  an 
eminent  loyalist,  among  the  first  of  those  nobles  who 
left  Westminster,  and  at  Newbury  fight  had  his  three 
horses  killed  under  him.  Lady  Carey  was  Mary, 
natural  daughter  of  Lord  Scrope,  who  married  Henry- 
Carey,  commonly  called  Lord  Leppington.  Lady 
Leppington  (or  Carey)  lost  her  husband  in  1649,  and 
her  son  died  May  24,  1653.  This  helps  us  to  date 
the  letter.  Of  her  "  kindness  to  Compton,"  of  which 
Dorothy  writes  in  her  next  letter,  nothing  is  known, 
but  she  married  Charles  Paulet,  Lord  St.  John,  after- 
wards the  Duke  of  Bolton,  early  in  1654. 

The  jealous  Sir  T here  mentioned  may  be  Sir 

Thomas  Osborne,  who,  we  may  suppose,  was  not  well 
pleased  at  the  refusal  of  his  offer. 

Sir  Peter  Lely  did  paint  a  portrait  of  Lady  Diana 
Rich  some  months  after  this  date.  It  is  somewhat 
curious  that  he  should  remain  in  England  during  the 
Civil  Wars  ;  but  his  business  was  to  paint  all  men's 
portraits.  He  had  painted  Charles  I. ;  now  he  was 
painting  Cromwell.  It  was  to  him  Cromwell  is  said  to 
have  shouted :  "  Paint  the  warts !  paint  the  warts  ! " 
when  the  courtly  Sir  Peter  would  have  made  a 


Life  at  Chicksands.  93 

presentable  picture  even  of  the  Lord  General  himself. 
Cromwell  was  a  sound  critic  in  this,  and  had  detected 
the  main  fault  of  Sir  Peter's  portraits,  whose  value  to 
us  is  greatly  lessened  by  the  artist's  constant  habit  of 
flattery. 

SIR, — If  it  were  the  carrier's  fault  that  you 
stayed  so  long  for  your  letters,  you  are  revenged, 
for  I  have  chid  him  most  unreasonably.  But  I 
must  confess  'twas  not  for  that,  for  I  did  not 
know  it  then,  but  going  to  meet  him  (as  I  usually 
do),  when  he  gave  me  your  letter  I  found  the 
upper  seal  broken  open,  and  underneath  where  it 
uses  to  be  only  closed  with  a  little  wax,  there  was 
a  seal,  which  though  it  were  an  anchor  and  a 
heart,  methought  it  did  not  look  like  yours,  but 
less,  and  much  worse  cut.  This  suspicion  was  so 
strong  upon  me,  that  I  chid  till  the  poor  fellow 
was  ready  to  cry,  and  swore  to  me  that  it  had 
never  been  touched  since  he  had  it,  and  that  he 
was  careful  of  it,  as  he  never  put  it  with  his  other 
letters,  but  by  itself,  and  that  now  it  come 
amongst  his  money,  which  perhaps  might  break 
the  seal ;  and  lest  I  should  think  it  was  his 
curiosity,  he  told  me  very  ingenuously  he  could 
not  read,  and  so  we  parted  for  the  present.  But 
since,  he  has  been  with  a  neighbour  of  mine 
whom  he  sometimes  delivers  my  letters  to,  and 
begged  her  that  she  would  go  to  me  and  desire 
my  worship  to  write  to  your  worship  to  know  how 
the  letter  was  sealed,  for  it  has  so  grieved  him 
that  he  has  neither  eat  nor  slept  (to  do  him  any 
good)  since  he  came  home,  and  in  grace  of  God 


94  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

this  shall  be  a  warning  to  him  as  long  as  he  lives. 
He  takes  it  so  heavily  that  I  think  I  must  be 
friends  with  him  again  ;  but  pray  hereafter  seal 
your  letters,  so  that  the  difficulty  of  opening  them 
may  dishearten  anybody  from  attempting  it. 

It  was  but  my  guess  that  the  ladies  at  H earns' 
were  unhandsome ;  but  since  you  tell  me  they 
were  remarkably  so,  sure  I  know  them  by  it  ; 
they  are  two  sisters,  and  might  have  been  mine 
if  the  Fates  had  so  pleased.  They  have  a  brother 
that  is  not  like  them,  and  is  a  baronet  besides. 
Tis  strange  that  you  tell  me  of  my  Lords 
Shandoys  [Chandos]  and  Arundel ;  but  what 
becomes  of  young  Compton's  estate  ?  •  Sure  my 
Lady  Carey  cannot  neither  in  honour  nor  con- 
science keep  it;  besides  that,  she  needs  it  less 
now  than  ever,  her  son  (being,  as  I  hear) 
dead. 

Sir  T.,  I  suppose,  avoids  you  as  a  friend  of 
mine.  My  brother  tells  me  they  meet  sometimes, 
and  have  the  most  ado  to  pull  off  their  hats  to 
one  another  that  can  be,  and  never  speak.  If  I 
were  in  town  I'll  undertake  he  would  venture  the 
being  choked  for  want  of  air  rather  than  stir  out 
of  doors  for  fear  of  meeting  me.  But  did  you 
not  say  in  your  last  that  you  took  something  very 
ill  from  me  ?  If  'twas  my  humble  thanks,  well, 
you  shall  have  no  more  of  them  then,  nor  no 
more  servants.  I  think  that  they  are  not 
necessary  among  friends. 

I  take  it  very  kindly  that  your  father  asked 
for  me,  and  that  you  were  not  pleased  with  the 


Life  at  Chicksands.  95 

question  he  made  of  the  continuance  of  my 
friendship.  I  can  pardon  it  him,  because  he 
does  not  know  me,  but  I  should  never  forgive 
you  if  you  could  doubt  it.  Were  my  face  in  no 
more  danger  of  changing  than  my  mind,  I  should 
be  worth  the  seeing  at  threescore  ;  and  that  which 
is  but  very  ordinary  now,  would  then  be  counted 
handsome  for  an  old  woman ;  but,  alas  !  I  am 
more  likely  to  look  old  before  my  time  with  grief. 
Never  anybody  had  such  luck  with  servants  ;  what 
with  marrying  and  what  with  dying,  they  all  leave 
me.  Just  now  I  have  news  brought  me  of  the 
death  of  an  old  rich  knight  that  has  promised 
me  this  seven  years  to  marry  me  whensoever  his 
wife  died,  and  now  he's  dead  before  her,  and  has 
left  her  such  a  widow,  it  makes  me  mad  to  think 
on't,  ^1200  a  year  jointure  and  ^20,000  in  money 
and  personal  estate,  and  all  this  I  might  have  had 
if  Mr.  Death  had  been  pleased  to  have  taken  her 
instead  of  him.  Well,  who  can  help  these  things  ? 
But,  since  I  cannot  have  him,  would  you  had  her ! 
What  say  you  ?  Shall  I  speak  a  good  word  for 
you  ?  She  will  marry  for  certain,  and  perhaps, 
though  my  brother  may  expect  I  should  serve 
him  in  it,  yet  if  you  give  me  commission  I'll  say 
I  was  engaged  beforehand  for  a  friend,  and  leave 
him  to  shift  for  himself.  You  would  be  my 
neighbour  if  you  had  her,  and  I  should  see  you 
often.  Think  on't,  and  let  me  know  what  you 
resolve  ?  My  lady  has  writ  me  word  that  she 
intends  very  shortly  to  sit  at  Lely's  for  her  picture 
for  me ;  i  give  you  notice  on't,  that  you  may  have 


96  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

the  pleasure  of  seeing  it  sometimes  whilst  'tis 
there.  I  imagine  'twill  be  so  to  you,  for  I  am 
sure  it  would  be  a  great  one  to  me,  and  we  do 
not  use  to  differ  in  our  inclinations,  though  I 
cannot  agree  with  you  that  my  brother's  kindness 
to  me  has  anything  of  trouble  in't ;  no,  sure,  I  may 
be  just  to  you  and  him  both,  and  to  be  a  kind 
sister  will  take  nothing  from  my  being  a  perfect 
friend. 


Letter  17. — Lady  Newcastle  was  Margaret  Duchess  of 
Newcastle.  "  The  thrice  noble,  chaste,  and  virtuous,  but 
again  somewhat  fantastical  and  original-brained,  generous 
Margaret  Newcastle,"  as  Elia  describes  her.  She  was  the 
youngest  daughter  of  Sir  Charles  Lucas,  and  was  born  at 
Colchester  towards  the  end  of  the  reign  of  James  I.  Her 
mother  appears  to  have  been  remarkably  careful  of  her 
education  in  all  such  lighter  matters  as  dancing,  music, 
and  the  learning  of  the  French  tongue  ;  but  she  does 
not  seem  to  have  made  any  deep  study  of  the  classics. 
In  1643  she  joined  the  Court  at  Oxford,  and  was  made 
one  of  the  Maids  of  Honour  to  Henrietta  Maria,  whom 
she  afterwards  attended  in  exile.  At  Paris  she  met  the 
Marquis  of  Newcastle,  who  married  her  in  that  city  in 
1645.  From  Paris  they  went  to  Rotterdam,  she  leaving 
the  Queen  to  follow  her  husband's  fortunes  ;  and  after 
stopping  at  Rotterdam  and  Brabant  for  short  periods, 
they  settled  at  Antwerp. 

At  the  Restoration  she  returned  to  England  with  her 
husband,  and  employed  her  time  in  writing  letters,  plays, 
poems,  philosophical  discourses,  and  orations.  There  is 
a  long  catalogue  of  her  works  in  Ballard's  Memoirs,  but 
all  published  at  a  date  subsequent  to  1653.  However, 
from  Anthony  Wood  and  other  sources  one  gathers 
somewhat  different  details  of  her  life  and  writings  ;  and 


Life  at  Chicksands.  97 

the  book  to  which  Dorothy  refers  here  and  in  Letter 
21,  is  probably  the  Poems  and  Fancies >  an  edition  of 
which  was  published,  I  believe,  in  this  year  [1653]. 
Many  of  her  verses  are  more  strangely  incomprehen- 
sible than  anything  even  in  the  poetry  of  to-day.  Take, 
for  instance,  a  poem  of  four  lines,  from  the  Poems  and 
Fancies,  entitled — 

THE  JOINING  OF  SEVERAL  FIGUR'D  ATOMS  MAKES 
OTHER  FIGURES. 

Several  figur'd  Atoms  well  agreeing 
When  joined,  do  give  another  figure  being. 
For  as  those  figures  joined  several  ways 
The  fabrick  of  each  several  creature  raise. 

This  seems  to  be  a  rhyming  statement  of  the  Atomic 
theory,  but  whether  it  is  a  poem  or  a  fancy  we  should 
find  it  hard  to  decide,  It  is  not,  however,  an  unfair 
example  of  Lady  Newcastle's  fantastic  style.  Lady 
Newcastle  died  in  1673,  and  was  buried  in  Westminster 
Abbey, — "  A  wise,  witty,  and  learned  Lady,  which  her 
many  books  do  well  testify." 

SIR, — I  received  your  letter  to-day,  when  I 
thought  it  almost  impossible  that  I  should  be 
sensible  of  anything  but  my  father's  sickness  and 
my  own  affliction  in  it.  Indeed,  he  was  then  so 
dangerously  ill  that  we  could  not  reasonably  hope 
he  should  outlive  this  day ;  yet  he  is  now,  I  thank 
God,  much  better,  and  I  am  come  so  much  to 
myself  with  it,  as  to  undertake  a  long  letter  to 
you  whilst  I  watch  by  him.  Towards  the  latter 
end  it  will  be  excellent  stuff,  I  believe ;  but,  alas ! 
you  may  allow  me  to  dream  sometimes.  I  have 
had  so  little  sleep  since  my  father  was  sick  that 
I  am  never  thoroughly  awake.  Lord,  how  I  have 

G 


98  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

wished  for  you  !  Here  do  I  sit  all  night  by  a 
poor  moped  fellow  that  serves  my  father,  and 
have  much  ado  to  keep  him  awake  and  myself 
too.  If  you  heard  the  wise  discourse  that  is 
between  us,  you  would  swear  we  wanted  sleep  ; 
but  I  shall  leave  him  to-night  to  entertain  him- 
self, and  try  if  I  can  write  as  wisely  as  I  talk.  I 
am  glad  all  is  well  again.  In  earnest,  it  would 
have  lain  upon  my  conscience  if  I  had  been  the 
occasion  of  making  your  poor  boy  lose  a  service, 
that  if  he  has  the  wit  to  know  how  to  value  it, 
he  would  never  have  forgiven  me  while  he  had 
lived. 

But  while  I  remember  it,  let  me  ask  you  if  you 
did  not  send  my  letter  and  Ctiopatre  where  I 
directed  you  for  my  lady  ?  I  received  one  from 
her  to-day  full  of  the  kindest  reproaches,  that  she 
has  not  heard  from  me  this  three  weeks.  I  have 
writ  constantly  to  her,  but  I  do  not  so  much 
wonder  that  the  rest  are  lost,  as  that  she  seems 
not  to  have  received  that  which  I  sent  to  you  nor 
the  books.  I  do  not  understand  it,  but  I  know 
there  is  no  fault  of  yours  in't.  But,  mark  you  !  if 
you  think  to  'scape  with  sending  me  such  bits  of 
letters,  you  are  mistaken.  You  say  you  are  often 
interrupted,  and  I  believe  it ;  but  you  must  use 
then  to  begin  to  write  before  you  receive  mine, 
and  whensoever  you  have  any  spare  time  allow 
me  some  of  it.  Can  you  doubt  that  anything 
can  make  your  letters  cheap  ?  In  earnest,  'twas 
unkindly  said,  and  if  I  could  be  angry  with  you 
it  should  be  for  that.  No,  certainly  they  are,  and 


Life  at  Chicksands,  99 

ever  will  be,  dear  to  me  as  that  which  I  receive 
a  huge  contentment  by.  How  shall  I  long  when 
you  are  gone  your  journey  to  hear  from  you  !  how 
shall  I  apprehend  a  thousand  accidents  that  are 
not  likely  nor  will  never  happen,  I  hope !  Oh,  if 
you  do  not  send  me  long  letters,  then  you  are  the 
cruellest  person  that  can  be  !  If  you  love  me  you 
will ;  and  if  you  do  not,  I  shall  never  love  myself. 
You  need  not  fear  such  a  command  as  you 
mention.  Alas  !  I  am  too  much  concerned  that 
you  should  love  me  ever  to  forbid  it  you  ;  'tis 
all  that  I  propose  of  happiness  to  myself  in  the 
world.  The  burning  of  my  paper  has  waked  me  ; 
all  this  while  I  was  in  a  dream.  But  'tis  no 
matter,  I  am  content  you  should  know  they  are 
of  you,  and  that  when  my  thoughts  are  left  most 
at  liberty  they  are  the  kindest.  I  swear  my  eyes 
are  so  heavy  that  I  hardly  see  what  I  write,  nor 
do  I  think  you  will  be  able  to  read  it  when  I 
have  done  ;  the  best  on't  is  'twill  be  no  great  loss 
to  you  if  you  do  not,  for,  sure,  the  greatest  part 
on't  is  not  sense,  and  yet  on  my  conscience  I  shall 
go  on  with  it.  'Tis  like  people  that  talk  in  their 
sleep,  nothing  interrupts  them  but  talking  to  them 
again,  and  that  you  are  not  like  to  do  at  this 
distance  ;  besides  that,  at  this  instant  you  are,  I 
believe,  more  asleep  than  I,  and  do  not  so  much 
as  dream  that  I  am  writing  to  you.  My  fellow- 
watchers  have  been  asleep  too,  till  just  now  they 
begin  to  stretch  and  yawn  ;  they  are  going  to  try 
if  eating  and  drinking  can  keep  them  awake,  and 
I  am  kindly  invited  to  be  of  their  company ;  and 


TOO  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

my  father's  man  has  got  one  of  the  maids  to  talk 
nonsense  to  to-night,  and  they  have  got  between 
them  a  bottle  of  ale.  I  shall  lose  my  share  if 
I  do  not  take  them  at  their  first  offer.  Your 
patience  till  I  have  drunk,  and  then  I'll  for  you 
again. 

And  now  on  the  strength  of  this  ale,  I  believe 
I  shall  be  able  to  fill  up  this  paper  that's  left  with 
something  or  other  ;  and  first  let  me  ask  you  if 
you  have  seen  a  book  of  poems  newly  come  out, 
made  by  my  Lady  Newcastle  ?  For  God's  sake 
if  you  meet  with  it  send  it  to  me ;  they  say  'tis 
ten  times  more  extravagant  than  her  dress.  Sure, 
the  poor  woman  is  a  little  distracted,  she  could 
never  be  so  ridiculous  else  as  to  venture  at  writing 
books,  and  in  verse  too.  If  I  should  not  sleep 
this  fortnight  I  should  not  come  to  that.  My 
eyes  grow  a  little  dim  though,  for  all  the  ale,  and 
I  believe  if  I  could  see  it  this  is  most  strangely 
scribbled.  Sure,  I  shall  not  find  fault  with  your 
writing  in  haste,  for  anything  but  the  shortness  of 
your  letter ;  and  'twould  be  very  unjust  in  me 
to  tie  you  to  a  ceremony  that  I  do  not  observe 
myself.  No,  for  God's  sake  let  there  be  no 
such  thing  between  us ;  a  real  kindness  is  so  far 
beyond  all  compliment,  that  it  never  appears  more 
than  when  there  is  least  of  t'other  mingled  with 
it.  If,  then,  you  would  have  me  believe  yours  to 
be  perfect,  confirm  it  to  me  by  a  kind  freedom. 
Tell  me  if  there  be  anything  that  I  can  serve  you 
in,  employ  me  as  you  would  do  that  sister  that 
you  say  you  love  so  well.  Chide  me  when  I  do 


Life  at  Chicksands.  101 

anything  that  is  not  well,  but  then  make  haste  to 
tell  me  that  you  have  forgiven  me,  and  that  you 
are  what  I  shall  ever  be,  a  faithful  friend. 


Letter  18. — I  cannot  pass  by  this  letter  without  say- 
ing that  the  first  part  of  it  is,  to  my  thinking,  the  most 
dainty  and  pleasing  piece  of  writing  that  Dorothy  has 
left  us.  The  account  of  her  life,  one  day  and  every 
day,  is  like  a  gust  of  fresh  country  air  clearing  away 
the  mist  of  time  and  enabling  one  to  see  Dorothy  at 
Chicksands  quite  clearly.  It  is  fashionable  to  deny 
Macaulay  everything  but  memory  ;  but  he  had  the  good 
taste  and  discernment  to  admire  this  letter,  and  quote 
from  it  in  his  Essay  on  Sir  William  Temple, — a  quota- 
tion for  which  I  shall  always  remain  very  grateful  to 
him. 

Sir  Thomas  Peyton,  "Brother  Peyton,"  was  born  in 
1619,  being,  I  believe,  the  second  baronet  of  that  name; 
his  seat  was  at  Knowlton,  in  the  county  of  Kent. 
Early  in  the  reign  of  Charles  I.  we  find  him  as  Member 
of  Parliament  for  Sandwich,  figuring  in  a  Committee 
side  by  side  with  the  two  Sir  Harry  Vanes ;  the  Com- 
mittee having  been  sent  into  Kent  to  prevent  the 
dispersal  of  rumours  to  the  scandal  of  Parliament, — no 
light  task,  one  would  think.  In  1643  he  is  in  prison, 
charged  among  other  things  with  being  a  malignant. 
An  unjust  charge,  as  he  thinks ;  for  he  writes  to  his 
brother,  "If  to  wish  on  earth  peace,  goodwill  towards 
men,  be  a  malignant,  none  is  greater  than  your  affec- 
tionate brother,  Thomas  Peyton."  But  in  spite  of  these 
peaceful  thoughts  in  prison,  in  May  1648  he  is  heading 
a  loyalist  rising  in  Kent.  The  other  counties  not  join- 
ing in  at  the  right  moment,  in  accordance  with  the 
general  procedure  at  Royalist  risings,  it  is  defeated  by 
Fairfax.  Sir  Thomas's  house  is  ransacked,  he  himself  is 
taken  prisoner  near  Bury  St.  Edmunds,  brought  to  the 


IO2  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

House  of  Commons,  and  committed  to  the  Tower.  A 
right  worthy  son-in-law  of  good  Sir  Peter.  We  are 
glad  to  find  him  at  large  again  in  1653,  his  head  safe  on 
his  shoulders,  and  do  not  grudge  him  his  grant  of  duties 
on  sea-coal,  dated  1660;  nor  are  we  sorry  that  he  should 
once  again  grace  the  House  of  Commons  with  his  pre- 
sence as  one  of  the  members  for  loyal  Kent  in  the  good 
days  when  the  King  enjoyed  his  own  again. 

SIR, — I  have  been  reckoning  up  how  many 
faults  you  lay  to  my  charge  in  your  last  letter,  and 
I  find  I  am  severe,  unjust,  unmerciful,  and  unkind. 
Oh  me,  how  should  one  do  to  mend  all  these ! 
'Tis  work  for  an  age,  and  'tis  to  be  feared  I  shall 
be  so  old  before  I  am  good,  that  'twill  not  be 
considerable  to  anybody  but  myself  whether  I  am 
so  or  not.  I  say  nothing  of  the  pretty  humour 
you  fancied  me  in,  in  your  dream,  because  'twas 
but  a  dream.  Sure,  if  it  had  been  anything  else, 
I  should  have  remembered  that  my  Lord  L.  loves 
to  have  his  chamber  and  his  bed  to  himself.  But 
seriously,  now,  I  wonder  at  your  patience.  How 
could  you  hear  me  talk  so  senselessly,  though 
'twere  but  in  your  sleep,  and  not  be  ready  to  beat 
me  ?  What  nice  mistaken  points  of  honour  1 
pretended  to,  and  yet  could  allow  him  room  in 
the  same  bed  with  me!  Well,  dreams  are  pleasant 
things  to  people  whose  humours  are  so ;  but  to 
have  the  spleen,  and  to  dream  upon't,  is  a  punish- 
ment I  would  not  wish  my  greatest  enemy.  I 
seldom  dream,  or  never  remember  them,  unless 
they  have  been  so  sad  as  to  put  me  into  such 
disorder  as  I  can  hardly  recover  when  I  am 


Life  at  Chicksands.  103 

awake,  and  some  of  those  I  am  confident  I  shall 
never  forget. 

You  ask  me  how  I  pass  my  time  here.  I  can 
give  you  a  perfect  account  not  only  of  what  I  do 
for  the  present,  but  of  what  I  am  likely  to  do  this 
seven  years  if  I  stay  here  so  long.  I  rise  in  the 
morning  reasonably  early,  and  before  I  am  ready 
I  go  round  the  house  till  I  am  weary  of  that,  and 
then  into  the  garden  till  it  grows  too  hot  for  me. 
About  ten  o'clock  I  think  of  making  me  ready, 
and  when  that's  done  I  go  into  my  father's 
chamber,  from  whence  to  dinner,  where  my 
cousin  Molle  and  I  sit  in  great  state  in  a  room, 
and  at  a  table  that  would  hold  a  great  many 
more.  After  dinner  we  sit  and  talk  till  Mr.  B. 
comes  in  question,  and  then  I  am  gone.  The 
heat  of  the  day  is  spent  in  reading  or  working, 
and  about  six  or  seven  o'clock  I  walk  out  into 
a  common  that  lies  hard  by  the  house,  where  a 
great  many  young  wenches  keep  sheep  and  cows, 
and  sit  in  the  shade  singing  of  ballads.  I  go  to 
them  and  compare  their  voices  and  beauties  to 
some  ancient  shepherdesses  that  I  have  read  of, 
and  find  a  vast  difference  there ;  but,  trust  me,  I 
think  these  are  as  innocent  as  those  could  be.  I 
talk  to  them,  and  find  they  want  nothing  to  make 
them  the  happiest  people  in  the  world  but  the 
knowledge  that  they  are  so.  Most  commonly, 
when  we  are  in  the  midst  of  our  discourse,  one 
looks  about  her,  and  spies  her  cows  going  into 
the  corn,  and  then  away  they  all  run  as  if  they 
had  wings  at  their  heels.  I,  that  am  not  so 


IO4  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

nimble,  stay  behind ;  and  when  I  see  them  driv- 
ing home  their  cattle,  I  think  'tis  time  for  me  to 
return  too.  When  I  have  supped,  I  go  into  the 
garden,  and  so  to  the  side  of  a  small  river  that 
runs  by  it,  when  I  sit  down  and  wish  you  were 
with  me  (you  had  best  say  this  is  not  kind 
neither).  In  earnest,  'tis  a  pleasant  place,  and 
would  be  much  more  so  to  me  if  I  had  your 
company.  I  sit  there  sometimes  till  I  am  lost 
with  thinking ;  and  were  it  not  for  some  cruel 
thoughts  of  the  crossness  of  our  fortunes  that 
will  not  let  me  sleep  there,  I  should  forget  that 
there  were  such  a  thing  to  be  done  as  going  to 
bed. 

Since  I  writ  this  my  company  is  increased  by 
two,  my  brother  Harry  and  a  fair  niece,  the 
eldest  of  my  brother  Peyton's  children.  She  is 
so  much  a  woman  that  I  am  almost  ashamed  to 
say  I  am  her  aunt ;  and  so  pretty,  that,  if  I  had 
any  design  to  gain  of  servants,  I  should  not  like 
her  company ;  but  I  have  none,  and  therefore 
shall  endeavour  to  keep  her  here  as  long  as  I  can 
persuade  her  father  to  spare  her,  for  she  will 
easily  consent  to  it,  having  so  much  of  my  humour 
(though  it  be  the  worst  thing  in  her)  as  to  like 
a  melancholy  place  and  little  company.  My 
brother  John  is  not  come  down  again,  nor  am 
I  certain  when  he  will  be  here.  He  went  from 
London  into  Gloucestershire  to  my  sister  who 
was  very  ill,  and  his  youngest  girl,  of  which  he 
was  very  fond,  is  since  dead.  But  I  believe  by 
that  time  his  wife  has  a  little  recovered  her  sick- 


Life  at  Chicksands.  105 

ness  and  loss  of  her  child,  he  will  be  coming  this 
way.  My  father  is  reasonably  well,  but  keeps  his 
chamber  still,  and  will  hardly,  I  am  afraid,  ever  be 
so  perfectly  recovered  as  to  come  abroad  again. 

I  am  sorry  for  poor  Walker,  but  you  need  not 
doubt  of  what  he  has  of  yours  in  his  hands,  for 
it  seems  he  does  not  use  to  do  his  work  himself. 
I  speak  seriously,  he  keeps  a  Frenchman  that 
sets  all  his  seals  and  rings.  If  what  you  say  of 
my  Lady  Leppington  be  of  your  own  knowledge, 
I  shall  believe  you,  but  otherwise  I  can  assure 
you  I  have  heard  from  people  that  pretend  to 
know  her  very  well,  that  her  kindness  to  Compton 
was  very  moderate,  and  that  she  never  liked  him 
so  well  as  when  he  died  and  gave  her  his  estate. 
But  they  might  be  deceived,  and  'tis  not  so 
strange  as  that  you  should  imagine  a  coldness 
and  an  indifference  in  my  letters  when  I  so  little 
meant  it;  but  I  am  not  displeased  you  should 
desire  my  kindness  enough  to  apprehend  the  loss 
of  it  when  it  is  safest.  Only  I  would  not  have 
you  apprehend  it  so  far  as  to  believe  it  possible, 
—that  were  an  injury  to  all  the  assurances  I  have 
given  you,  and  if  you  love  me  you  cannot  think 
me  unworthy.  I  should  think  myself  so,  if  I 
found  you  grew  indifferent  to  me,  that  I  have  had 
so  long  and  so  particular  a  friendship  for ;  but, 
sure,  this  is  more  than  I  need  to  say.  You  are 
enough  in  my  heart  to  know  all  my  thoughts, 
and  if  so,  you  know  better  than  I  can  tell  you 
how  much  I  am 

Yours. 


io6  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

Letter  19.  —  Lady  Ruthin  is  Susan,  daughter  and 
heiress  of  Charles  Longueville  Lord  Grey  de  Ruthin. 
She  married  Sir  Harry  Yelverton,  a  match  of  which 
Dorothy  thoroughly  approved.  We  hear  more  of 
Dorothy's  beautiful  friend  at  the  time  when  the  treaty 
with  Sir  Harry  Yelverton  is  going  forward.  Of  Mr. 
Talbot  I  find  nothing ;  we  must  rest  contented  in 
knowing  him  to  be  a  fellow-servant. 

R.  Spencer  is  Robert  Spencer,  Earl  of  Sunderland, 
Lady  Sunderland's  brother-in-law.  He  was  afterwards 
one  of  the  inner  council  of  four  in  Temple's  Scheme 
of  Government.  "  In  him,"  says  Macaulay,  in  a  some- 
what highly-coloured  character-sketch,  "  the  political 
immorality  of  his  age  was  personified  in  the  most  lively 
manner.  Nature  had  given  him  a  keen  understanding, 
a  restless  and  mischievous  temper,  a  cold  heart,  and  an 
abject  spirit.  His  mind  had  undergone  a  training  by 
which  all  his  vices  had  been  nursed  up  to  the  rankest 
maturity." 

Lady  Lexington  was  Mary,  daughter  of  Sir  Anthony 
Leger ;  she  was  the  third  wife  of  Robert  Sutton,  Earl  of 
Lexington.  I  cannot  find  that  her  daughter  married 
one  of  the  Spencers. 

SIR, — If  to  know  I  wish  you  with  me  pleases 
you,  'tis  a  satisfaction  you  may  always  have,  for  I 
do  it  perpetually ;  but  were  it  really  in  my  power 
to  make  you  happy,  I  could  not  miss  being  so 
myself,  for  I  know  nothing  else  I  want  towards  it. 
You  are  admitted  to  all  my  entertainments ;  and 
'twould  be  a  pleasing  surprise  to  me  to  see  you 
amongst  my  shepherdesses.  I  meet  some  there 
sometimes  that  look  very  like  gentlemen  (for  'tis 
a  road),  and  when  they  are  in  good  humour  they 
give  us  a  compliment  as  they  go  by  ;  but  you 


Life  at  Chicksands.  107 

would  be  so  courteous  as  to  stay,  I  hope,  if  we 
entreated  you ;  'tis  in  your  way  to  this  place, 
and  just  before  the  house.  'Tis  our  Hyde  Park, 
and  every  fine  evening,  anybody  that  wanted  a 
mistress  might  be  sure  to  find  one  there.  I  have 
wondered  often  to  meet  my  fair  Lady  Ruthin 
there  alone ;  methinks  it  should  be  dangerous  for 
an  heir.  I  could  find  in  my  heart  to  steal  her 
away  myself,  but  it  should  be  rather  for  her 
person  than  her  fortune.  My  brother  says  not  a 
word  of  you,  nor  your  service,  nor  do  I  expect  he 
should ;  if  I  could  forget  you,  he  would  not  help 
my  memory.  You  would  laugh,  sure,  if  I  could 
tell  you  how  many  servants  he  has  offered  me 
since  he  came  down ;  but  one  above  all  the  rest  I 
think  he  is  in  love  with  himself,  and  may  marry 
him  too  if  he  pleases,  I  shall  not  hinder  him. 
'Tis  one  Talbot,  the  finest  gentleman  he  has  seen 
this  seven  year ;  but  the  mischief  on't  is  he  has 
not  above  fifteen  or  sixteen  hundred  pound  a  year, 
though  he  swears  he  begins  to  think  one  might 
bate  ^500  a  year  for  such  a  husband.  I  tell  him 
I  am  glad  to  hear  it ;  and  if  I  was  as  much  taken 
(as  he)  with  Mr.  Talbot,  I  should  not  be  less 
gallant;  but  I  doubted  the  first  extremely.  I  have 
spleen  enough  to  carry  me  to  Epsom  this  summer; 
but  yet  I  think  I  shall  not  go.  If  I  make  one 
journey,  I  must  make  more,  for  then  I  have  no 
excuse.  Rather  than  be  obliged  to  that,  I'll  make 
none.  You  have  so  often  reproached  me  with 
the  loss  of  your  liberty,  that  to  make  you  some 
amends  1  am  contented  to  be  your  prisoner  this 


io8  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

summer ;  but  you  shall  do  one  favour  for  me 
into  the  bargain.  When  your  father  goes  into 
Ireland,  lay  your  commands  upon  some  of  his 
servants  to  get  you  an  Irish  greyhound.  I  have 
one  that  was  the  General's ;  but  'tis  a  bitch,  and 
those  are  always  much  less  than  the  dogs.  I  got 
it  in  the  time  of  my  favour  there,  and  it  was  all 
they  had.  Henry  Cromwell  undertook  to  write 
to  his  brother  Fleetwood  for  another  for  me ;  but 
I  have  lost  my  hopes  there.  Whomsoever  it  is 
that  you  employ,  he  will  need  no  other  instruc- 
tions but  to  get  the  biggest  he  can  meet  with ; 
'tis  all  the  beauty  of  those  dogs,  or  of  any  kind,  I 
think.  A  masty  [mastif  ]  is  handsomer  to  me  than 
the  most  exact  little  dog  that  ever  lady  played 
withal.  You  will  not  offer  to  take  it  ill  that  I 
employ  you  in  such  a  commission,  since  I  have 
told  you  that  the  General's  son  did  not  refuse  it ; 
but  I  shall  take  it  ill  if  you  do  not  take  the  same 
freedom  with  me  whensoever  I  am  capable  of 
serving  you.  The  town  must  needs  be  unplea- 
sant now,  and,  methinks,  you  might  contrive  some 
way  of  having  your  letters  sent  to  you  without 
giving  yourself  the  trouble  of  coming  to  town 
for  them  when  you  have  no  other  business ; 
you  must  pardon  me  if  I  think  they  cannot  be 
worth  it. 

I  am  told  that  R.  Spencer  is  a  servant  to  a 
lady  of  my  acquaintance,  a  daughter  of  my  Lady 
Lexington's.  Is  it  true  ?  And  if  it  be,  what  is 
become  of  the  ^2500  lady  ?  Would  you  think  it, 
that  I  have  an  ambassador  from  the  Emperor 


Life  at  Chicksands,  109 

Justinian  that  comes  to  renew  the  treaty?  In 
earnest,  'tis  true,  and  I  want  your  counsel  ex- 
tremely, what  to  do  in  it.  You  told  me  once 
that  of  all  my  servants  you  liked  him  the  best. 
If  I  could  do  so  too,  there  were  no  dispute  in't. 
Well,  I'll  think  on't,  and  if  it  succeed  I  will  be  as 
good  as  my  word  ;  you  shall  take  your  choice  of 
my  four  daughters.  Am  not  I  beholding  to  him, 
think  you  ?  He  says  that  he  has  made  addresses, 
'tis  true,  in  several  places  since  we  parted,  but 
could  not  fix  anywhere ;  and,  in  his  opinion,  he 
sees  nobody  that  would  make  so  fit  a  wife  for 
him  as  I.  He  has  often  inquired  after  me  to 
hear  if  I  were  marrying,  and  somebody  told  him 
I  had  an  ague,  and  he  presently  fell  sick  of  one 
too,  so  natural  a  sympathy  there  is  between  us ; 
and  yet  for  all  this,  on  my  conscience,  we  shall 
never  marry.  He  desires  to  know  whether  I  am 
at  liberty  or  not.  What  shall  I  tell  him  ?  Or 
shall  I  send  him  to  you  to  know  ?  I  think  that 
will  be  best.  I'll  say  that  you  are  much  my 
friend,  and  that  I  have  resolved  not  to  dispose 
of  myself  but  with  your  consent  and  approba- 
tion, and  therefore  he  must  make  all  his  court 
to  you ;  and  when  he  can  bring  me  a  certificate 
under  your  hand,  that  you  think  him  a  fit  husband 
for  me,  'tis  very  likely  I  may  have  him.  Till  then 
I  am  his  humble  servant  and  your  faithful  friend. 

Letter  20. — In  this  letter  the  journey  into  Sweden  is 
given  up  finally,  and  Temple  is  once  more  without 
employment  or  the  hope  of  employment  This  was 


1 10  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

probably  brought  about  by  the  alteration  of  the 
Government  plans;  and  as  Lord  Lisle  was  not  to  go 
to  Sweden,  there  was  no  chance  of  Temple's  being 
attached  to  the  Embassy. 

SIR, — I  am  sorry  my  last  letter  frighted  you 
so ;  'twas  no  part  of  my  intention  it  should ;  but 
I  am  more  sorry  to  see  by  your  first  chapter  that 
your  humour  is  not  always  so  good  as  I  could 
wish  it.  'Twas  the  only  thing  I  ever  desired  we 
might  differ  in,  and  therefore  I  think  it  is  denied 
me.  Whilst  I  read  the  description  on't,  I  could 
not  believe  but  that  I  had  writ  it  myself,  it  was 
so  much  my  own.  I  pity  you  in  earnest  much 
more  than  I  do  myself;  and  yet  I  may  deserve 
yours  when  I  shall  have  told  you,  that  besides  all 
that  you  speak  of,  I  have  gotten  an  ague  that 
with  two  fits  has  made  me  so  very  weak,  that  I 
doubted  extremely  yesterday  whether  I  should  be 
able  to  sit  up  to-day  to  write  to  you.  But  you 
must  not  be  troubled  at  this  ;  that's  the  way  to 
kill  me  indeed.  Besides,  it  is  impossible  I  should 
keep  it  long,  for  here  is  my  eldest  brother,  and 
my  cousin  Molle,  and  two  or  three  more  that 
have  great  understanding  in  agues,  as  people  that 
have  been  long  acquainted  with  them,  and  they 
do  so  tutor  and  govern  me,  that  I  am  neither  to 
eat,  drink,  nor  sleep  without  their  leave  ;  and, 
sure,  my  obedience  deserves  they  should  cure 
me,  or  else  they  are  great  tyrants  to  very  little 
purpose.  You  cannot  imagine  how  cruel  they 
are  to  me,  and  yet  will  persuade  me  'tis  for  my 
good.  I  know  they  mean  it  so,  and  therefore  say 


Life  at  Ckicksands.  1 1 1 

nothing  on't,  I  admit,  and  sigh  to  think  those  are 
not  here  that  would  be  kinder  to  me.  But  you 
were  cruel  yourself  when  you  seemed  to  appre- 
hend I  might  oblige  you  to  make  good  your  last 
offer.  Alack !  if  I  could  purchase  the  empire  of 
the  world  at  that  rate,  I  should  think  it  much  too 
dear ;  and  though,  perhaps,  I  am  too  unhappy 
myself  ever  to  make  anybody  else  happy,  yet, 
sure,  I  shall  take  heed  that  my  misfortunes  may 
not  prove  infectious  to  my  friends.  You  ask 
counsel  of  a  person  that  is  very  little  able  to  give 
it.  I  cannot  imagine  whither  you  should  go, 
since  this  journey  is  broke.  You  must  e'en  be 
content  to  stay  at  home,  I  think,  and  see  what 
will  become  of  us,  though  I  expect  nothing  of 
good ;  and,  sure,  you  never  made  a  truer  remark 
in  your  life  than  that  all  changes  are  for  the 
worse.  Will  it  not  stay  your  father's  journey 
too  ?  Methinks  it  should.  For  God's  sake  write 
me  all  that  you  hear  or  can  think  of,  that  I  may 
have  something  to  entertain  myself  withal.  I  have 
a  scurvy  head  that  will  not  let  me  write  longer. 
I  am  your. 

[Directed] — 

For  Mrs.  Paynter,  at  her  house 

in  Bedford  Street,  next  ye  Goate, 
In  Co  vent  Garden. 


Letter  2.1. — Sir  Thomas  Osborne  is  Dorothy's  "  Cousin 
Osborne  "  here  mentioned.  He  was,  you  remember,  a 
suitor  for  Dorothy's  hand,  but  has  now  married  Lady 
Bridget  Lindsay. 


112  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

The  "  squire  that  is  as  good  as  a  knight,"  is,  in  all  pro- 
bability, Richard  Bennet.  Thomas  Bennet,  his  father, 
an  alderman  of  the  city  of  London,  had  bought  a  seat 
near  Cambridge,  called  Babraham  or  Babram,  that  had 
belonged  to  Sir  Toby  Palavicini.  The  alderman  appears 
to  have  been  a  loyal  citizen,  as  he  was  created  baronet 
in  1660.  His  two  sons,  Sir  Richard  and  Sir  Thomas, 
married  daughters  of  Sir  Lavinius  Munck  ; — so  we  need 
not  accuse  Dorothy  of  irretrievably  breaking  hearts  by 
her  various  refusals. 

When  Dorothy  says  she  will  "  sit  like  the  lady  of  the 
lobster,  and  give  audience  at  Babram,"  she  simply 
means  that  she  will  sit  among  magnificent  surroundings 
unsuited  to  her  modest  disposition.  The  "lady"  of  a 
lobster  is  a  curious -shaped  substance  in  the  head  of 
that  fish,  bearing  some  distant  resemblance  to  the  figure 
of  a  woman.  The  expression  is  still  known  to  fish- 
mongers and  others,  who  also  refer  to  the  "  Adam  and 
Eve"  in  a  shrimp,  a  kindred  formation.  Curiously 
enough,  this  very  phrase  has  completely  puzzled  Dr. 
Grosart,  the  learned  editor  of  Herrick,  who  confesses 
that  he  can  make  nothing  of  the  allusion  in  the  follow- 
ing passage  from  The  Fairie  Temple : — 

"  The  saint  to  which  the  most  he  prayes, 
And  offers  Incense  Nights  and  Dayes, 
The  Lady  of  the  Lobster  is 
Whose  foot-pace  he  doth  stroak  and  kiss." 

Swift,  too,  uses  the  phrase  in  his  Battle  of  the  Books  in 
describing  the  encounter  between  Virgil  and  Dryden, 
where  he  says,  "  The  helmet  was  nine  times  too  large 
for  the  head,  which  appeared  situate  far  in  the  hinder 
part,  even  like  the  lady  in  a  lobster,  or  a  mouse  under 
a  canopy  of  state,  or  like  a  shrivelled  beau  from  within 
the  pent-house  of  a  modern  periwig." 

SIR, — I  do  not  know  that  anybody  has  frighted 
me,  or  beaten  me,  or  put  me  into  more  passion 


Life  at  Chicksands.  113 

than  what  I  usually  carry  about  me,  but  yesterday 
I  missed  my  fit,  and  am  not  without  hope  I  shall 
hear  no  more  on't.  My  father  has  lost  his  too, 
and  my  eldest  brother,  but  we  all  look  like  people 
risen  from  the  dead.  Only  my  cousin  Molle 
keeps  his  still ;  and,  in  earnest,  I  am  not  certain 
whether  he  would  lose  it  or  not,  for  it  gives  him 
a  lawful  occasion  of  being  nice  and  cautious  about 
himself,  to  which  he  in  his  own  humour  is  so 
much  inclined  that  'twere  not  easy  for  him  to 
forbear  it.  You  need  not  send  me  my  Lady 
Newcastle's  book  at  all,  for  I  have  seen  it,  and 
am  satisfied  that  there  are  many  soberer  people 
in  Bedlam.  I'll  swear  her  friends  are  much  to 
blame  to  let  her  go  abroad. 

But  I  am  hugely  pleased  that  you  have  seen 
my  Lady.  I  knew  you  could  not  choose  but  like 
her ;  but  yet,  let  me  tell  you,  you  have  seen  but 
the  worst  of  her.  Her  conversation  has  more 
charms  than  can  be  in  mere  beauty,  and  her 
humour  and  disposition  would  make  a  deformed 
person  appear  lovely.  You  had  strange  luck  to 
meet  my  brother  so  soon.  He  went  up  but  last 
Tuesday.  I  heard  from  him  on  Thursday,  but 
he  did  not  tell  me  he  had  seen  you ;  perhaps  he 
did  not  think  it  convenient  to  put  me  in  mind 
of  you ;  besides,  he  thought  he  told  me  enough 
in  telling  me  my  cousin  Osborne  was  married. 
Why  did  you  not  send  me  that  news  and  a 
garland  ?  Well,  the  best  on't  is  I  have  a  squire 
now  that  is  as  good  as  a  knight.  He  was  coming 
as  fast  as  a  coach  and  six  horses  could  carry  him, 

H 


114  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

but  I  desired  him  to  stay  till  my  ague  was  gone, 
and  give  me  a  little  time  to  recover  my  good 
looks ;  for  I  protest  if  he  saw  me  now  he  would 
never  deign  to  see  me  again.  Oh,  me !  I  can 
but  think  how  I  shall  sit  like  the  lady  of  the 
lobster,  and  give  audience  at  Babram.  You  have 
been  there,  I  am  sure.  Nobody  that  is  at  Cam- 
bridge 'scapes  it  But  you  were  never  so  wel- 
come thither  as  you  shall  be  when  I  am  mistress 
on't.  In  the  meantime,  I  have  sent  you  the  first 
tome  of  Cyrus  to  read  ;  when  you  have  done  with 
it,  leave  it  at  Mr.  Hollingsworth's,  and  I'll  send 
you  another.  I  have  had  ladies  with  me  all  the 
afternoon  that  are  for  London  to-morrow,  and 
now  I  have  as  many  letters  to  write  as  my  Lord 
General's  Secretary,  Forgive  me  that  this  is  no 
longer,  for 

I  am  your. 

Addressed — 

For  Mrs.  Paynter,  at  her  house  in 
Bedford  Street,  next  ye  Goate, 
In  Covent  Garden. 

Letter  22. — Mr.  Fish  and  Mr.  Freeman  were  probably 
neighbours  of  Dorothy.  There  is  a  Mr.  Ralph  Freeman 
of  Aspedon  Hall,  in  Hertfordshire,  mentioned  in 
contemporary  chronicles;  he  died  in  1714,  aged  88, 
and  was  therefore  about  37  years  of  age  at  this  time. 
His  father  seems  to  have  been  an  ideal  country  gentle- 
man, "  who,"  says  Sir  Henry  Chauncy,  "  made  his  house 
neat,  his  gardens  pleasant,  his  groves  delicious,  his 
children  cheerful,  his  servants  easy,  and  kept  excellent 
order  in  his  family." 


Life  at  Ckicksands.  1 1 5 

SIR, — You  are  more  in  my  debt  than  you 
imagine.  I  never  deserved  a  long  letter  so  much 
as  now,  when  you  sent  me  a  short  one.  I  could 
tell  you  such  a  story  ('tis  too  long  to  be  written) 
as  would  make  you  see  (what  I  never  discover' d 
in  myself  before)  that  I  am  a  valiant  lady.  In 
earnest,  we  have  had  such  a  skirmish,  and  upon 
so  foolish  an  occasion,  as  I  cannot  tell  which  is 
strangest.  The  Emperor  and  his  proposals  began 
it ;  I  talked  merrily  on't  till  I  saw  my  brother 
put  on  his  sober  face,  and  could  hardly  then 
believe  he  was  in  earnest.  It  seems  he  was,  for 
when  I  had  spoke  freely  my  meaning,  it  wrought 
so  with  him  as  to  fetch  up  all  that  lay  on  his 
stomach.  All  the  people  that  I  had  ever  in  my 
life  refused  were  brought  again  upon  the  stage, 
like  Richard  the  III.'s  ghosts,  to  reproach  me 
withal ;  and  all  the  kindness  his  discoveries  could 
make  I  had  for  you  was  laid  to  my  charge.  My 
best  qualities  (if  I  have  any  that  are  good)  served 
but  for  aggravations  of  my  fault,  and  I  was 
allowed  to  nave  wit  and  understanding  and  dis- 
cretion in  other  things,  that  it  might  appear  I  had 
none  in  this.  Well,  'twas  a  pretty  lecture,  and  I 
grew  warm  with  it  after  a  while ;  in  short,  we  came 
so  near  an  absolute  falling  out,  that  'twas  time  to 
give  over,  and  we  said  so  much  then  that  we 
have  hardly  spoken  a  word  together  since.  But 
'tis  wonderful  to  see  what  curtseys  and  legs  pass 
between  us ;  and  as  before  we  were  thought  the 
kindest  brother  and  sister,  we  are  certainly  the 
most  complimental  couple  in  England.  'Tis  a 


1 1 6  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

strange  change,  and  I  am  very  sorry  for  it,  but 
I'll  swear  I  know  not  how  to  help  it.  I  look 
upon't  as  one  of  my  great  misfortunes,  and  I  must 
bear  it,  as  that  which  is  not  my  first  nor  likely  to 
be  my  last.  'Tis  but  reasonable  (as  you  say)  that 
you  should  see  me,  and  yet  I  know  not  now  how 
it  can  well  be.  I  am  not  for  disguises,  it  looks  like 
guilt,  and  I  would  not  do  a  thing  I  durst  not 
own.  I  cannot  tell  whether  (if  there  were  a 
necessity  of  your  coming)  I  should  not  choose  to 
have  it  when  he  is  at  home,  and  rather  expose 
him  to  the  trouble  of  entertaining  a  person  whose 
company  (here)  would  not  be  pleasing  to  him, 
and  perhaps  an  opinion  that  I  did  it  purposely  to 
cross  him,  than  that  your  coming  in  his  absence 
should  be  thought  a  concealment.  'Twas  one 
reason  more  than  I  told  you  why  I  resolv'd  not 
to  go  to  Epsom  this  summer,  because  I  knew  he 
would  imagine  it  an  agreement  between  us,  and 
that  something  besides  my  spleen  carried  me 
thither ;  but  whether  you  see  me  or  not  you  may 
be  satisfied  I  am  safe  enough,  and  you  are  in  no 
danger  to  lose  your  prisoner,  since  so  great  a 
violence  as  this  has  not  broke  her  chains.  You 
will  have  nothing  to  thank  me  for  after  this  ;  my 
whole  life  will  not  yield  such  another  occasion  to 
let  you  see  at  what  rate  I  value  your  friendship, 
and  I  have  been  much  better  than  my  word  in 
doing  but  what  I  promised  you,  since  I  have 
found  it  a  much  harder  thing  not  to  yield  to  the 
power  of  a  near  relation,  and  a  greater  kindness 
than  I  could  then  imagine  it. 


Life  at  Chicksands.  \  \j 

To  let  you  see  I  did  not  repent  me  of  the  last 
commission,  I'll  give  you  another.  Here  is  a 
seal  that  Walker  set  for  me,  and  'tis  dropt  out ; 
pray  give  it  him  to  mend.  If  anything  could 
be  wonder'd  at  in  this  age,  I  should  very  much 
how  you  came  by  your  informations.  'Tis 
more  than  I  know  if  Mr.  Freeman  be  my 
servant.  I  saw  him  not  long  since,  and  he  told 
me  no  such  thing.  Do  you  know  him  ?  In 
earnest,  he's  a  pretty  gentleman,  and  has  a  great 
deal  of  good  nature,  I  think,  which  may  oblige 
him  perhaps  to  speak  well  of  his  acquaintances 
without  design.  Mr.  Fish  is  the  Squire  of 
Dames,  and  has  so  many  mistresses  that  anybody 
may  pretend  a  share  in  him  and  be  believed ;  but 
though  I  have  the  honour  to  be  his  near  neigh- 
bour, to  speak  freely,  I  cannot  brag  much  that  he 
makes  any  court  to  me  ;  and  I  know  no  young 
woman  in  the  country  that  he  does  not  visit  often. 

I  have  sent  you  another  tome  of  Cyrus,  pray 
send  the  first  to  Mr.  Hollingsworth  for  my  Lady. 
My  cousin  Molle  went  from  hence  to  Cambridge 
on  Thursday,  and  there's  an  end  of  Mr.  Bennet. 
I  have  no  company  now  but  my  niece  Peyton, 
and  my  brother  will  be  shortly  for  the  term,  but 
will  make  no  long  stay  in  town.  I  think  my 
youngest  brother  comes  down  with  him.  Re- 
member that  you  owe  me  a  long  letter  and  some- 
thing for  forgiving  your  last.  I  have  no  room 
for  more  than 

Your. 


1 1 8  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

Letter  23. 

SIR, — I  will  tell  you  no  more  of  my  servants. 
I  can  no  sooner  give  you  some  little  hints  where- 
abouts they  live,  but  you  know  them  presently, 
and  I  meant  you  should  be  beholding  to  me  for 
your  acquaintance.  But  it  seems  this  gentleman 
is  not  so  easy  access,  but  you  may  acknowledge 
something  due  to  me,  if  I  incline  him  to  look 
graciously  upon  you,  and  therefore  there  is  not 
much  harm  done.  What  has  kept  him  from 
marrying  all  this  time,  or  how  the  humour  comes 
so  furiously  upon  him  now,  I  know  not ;  but  if  he 
may  be  believed,  he  is  resolved  to  be  a  most 
romance  squire,  and  go  in  quest  of  some  en- 
chanted damsel,  whom  if  he  likes,  as  to  her 
person  (for  fortune  is  a  thing  below  him), — and 
we  do  not  read  in  history  that  any  knight  or 
squire  was  ever  so  discourteous  as  to  inquire 
what  portions  their  ladies  had, — then  he  comes 
with  the  power  of  the  county  to  demand  her 
(which  for  the  present  he  may  dispose  of,  being 
Sheriff),  so  I  do  not  see  who  is  able  to  resist 
him.  All  that  is  to  be  hoped  is,  that  since  he  may 
reduce  whomsoever  he  pleases  to  his  obedience, 
he  will  be  very  curious  in  his  choice,  and  then  I 
am  secure. 

It  may  be  I  dreamt  it  that  you  had  met  my 
brother,  or  else  it  was  one  of  the  reveries  of 
my  ague ;  if  so,  I  hope  I  shall  fall  into  no  more 
of  them.  I  have  missed  four  fits,  and  had  but 
five,  and  have  recovered  so  much  strength  as 


Life  at  Chicksands.  119 

made  me  venture  to  meet  your  letter  on  Wednes- 
day, a  mile  from  home.  Yet  my  recovery  will 
be  nothing  towards  my  leaving  this  place,  where 
many  reasons  will  oblige  me  to  stay  at  least  all 
this  summer,  unless  some  great  alteration  should 
happen  in  this  family ;  that  which  I  most  own  is 
my  father's  ill-health,  which,  though  it  be  not  in 
that  extremity  it  has  been,  yet  keeps  him  still  a 
prisoner  in  his  chamber,  and  for  the  most  part  to 
his  bed,  which  is  reason  enough.  But,  besides,  I 
can  give  you  others.  I  am  here  much  more  out 
of  people's  way  than  in  town,  where  my  aunt  and 
such  as  pretend  an  interest  in  me,  and  a  power 
over  me,  do  so  persecute  me  with  their  good 
nature,  and  take  it  so  ill  that  they  are  not  ac- 
cepted, as  I  would  live  in  a  hollow  tree  to  avoid 
them.  Here  I  have  nobody  but  my  brother  to 
torment  me,  whom  I  can  take  the  liberty  to  dis- 
pute with,  and  whom  I  have  prevailed  with 
hitherto  to  bring  none  of  his  pretenders  to  this 
place,  because  of  the  noise  all  such  people  make 
in  a  country,  and  the  tittle  -  tattle  it  breeds 
among  neighbours  that  have  nothing  to  do  but 
to  inquire  who  marries  and  who  makes  love.  If 
I  can  but  keep  him  still  in  that  humour,  Mr. 
Bennet  and  I  are  likely  to  preserve  our  state  and 
treat  at  distance  like  princes  ;  but  we  have  not  sent 
one  another  our  pictures  yet,  though  my  cousin 
Molle,  who  was  his  agent  here,  begged  mine  very 
earnestly.  But,  I  thank  God,  an  imagination 
took  him  one  morning  that  he  was  falling  into  a 
dropsy,  and  made  him  in  such  haste  to  go  back 


I2O  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

to  Cambridge  to  his  doctor,  that  he  never  remem- 
bers anything  he  has  to  ask  of  me,  but  the  coach 
to  carry  him  away.  I  lent  it  most  willingly,  and 
gone  he  is.  My  eldest  brother  goes  up  to  town 
on  Monday  too ;  perhaps  you  may  see  him,  but 
I  cannot  direct  you  where  to  find  him,  for  he  is 
not  yet  resolved  himself  where  to  lie ;  only  'tis 
likely  Nan  may  tell  you  when  he  is  there.  He 
will  make  no  stay,  I  believe.  You  will  think  him 
altered  (and,  if  it  be  possible)  more  melancholy 
than  he  was.  If  marriage  agrees  no  better  with 
other  people  than  it  does  with  him,  I  shall  pray 
that  all  my  friends  may  'scape  it.  Yet  if  I  were 
my  cousin,  H.  Danvers,  my  Lady  Diana  should 
not,  if  I  could  help  it,  as  well  as  I  love  her:  I 
would  try  if  ten  thousand  pound  a  year  with  a 
husband  that  doted  on  her,  as  I  should  do,  could 
not  keep  her  from  being  unhappy.  Well,  in 
earnest,  if  I  were  a  prince,  that  lady  should  be 
my  mistress,  but  I  can  give  no  rule  to  any  one 
else,  and  perhaps  those  that  are  in  no  danger  of 
losing  their  hearts  to  her  may  be  infinitely  taken 
with  one  I  should  not  value  at  all ;  for  (so  says 
the  Justinian)  wise  Providence  has  ordained  it 
that  by  their  different  humours  everybody  might 
find  something  to  please  themselves  withal,  with- 
out- envying  their  neighbours.  And  now  I  have 
begun  to  talk  gravely  and  wisely,  I'll  try  if  I  can 
go  a  little  further  without  being  out.  No,  I  can- 
not, for  I  have  forgot  already  what  'twas  I  would 
have  said  ;  but  'tis  no  matter,  for,  as  I  remember, 
it  was  not  much  to  the  purpose,  and,  besides,  I 


Life  at  Chicksands.  121 

have  paper  little  enough  left  to  chide  you  for 
asking  so  unkind  a  question  as  whether  you 
were  still  the  same  in  my  thoughts.  Have  you 
deserved  to  be  otherwise ;  that  is,  am  I  no  .more 
in  yours  ?  For  till  that  be,  it's  impossible  the 
other  should ;  but  that  will  never  be,  and  I  shall 
always  be  the  same  I  am.  My  heart  tells  me 
so,  and  I  believe  it;  for  were  it  otherwise,  Fortune 
would  not  persecute  me  thus.  Oh,  me  !  she's 
cruel,  and  how  far  her  power  may  reach  I  know 
not,  only  I  am  sure,  she  cannot  call  back  time 
that  is  past,  and  it  is  long  since  we  resolved  to  be 
for  ever 

Most  faithful  friends. 


Letter  24. — Tom  Cheeke  is  Sir  Thomas  Cheeke,  Knight, 
of  Purgo,  in  the  county  of  Essex,  or  more  probably  his 
son,  from  the  way  Dorothy  speaks  of  him ;  but  it  is 
difficult  to  discriminate  among  constant  generations  of 
Toms  after  a  lapse  of  two  hundred  years.  We  find 
Sir  Thomas's  daughter  was  at  this  time  the  third  wife 
of  Lord  Manchester ;  and  it  appears  that  Dorothy's 
great-grandfather  married  Catherine  Cheeke,  daughter 
of  the  then  Sir  Thomas.  This  will  assist  us  to  the 
connection  between  Dorothy,  Tom  Cheeke,  and  Lord 
Manchester.  Sir  Richard  Franklin,  Knight,  married  a 
daughter  of  Sir  Thomas  Cheeke.  He  purchased  Moor 
Park,  Hertfordshire,  about  this  time.  The  park  and 
the  mansion  he  bought  in  1652  from  the  Earl  of 
Monmouth,  and  the  manor  in  1655  from  Sir  Charles 
Harbord.  The  gardens  had  been  laid  .out  by  the 
Countess  of  Bedford,  who  had  sold  the  place  in  1626 
to  the  Earl  of  Pembroke.  The  house  was  well  known 
to  Temple,  who  describes  the  gardens  in  his  Essay  on 


122  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

Gardening ;  and  when  he  retired  in  later  years  to  an 
estate  near  Farnham  in  Surrey,  he  gave  to  it  the  name 
of  Moor  Park. 

Lord  Manchester  was  Edward  Montagu,  second  Earl 
of  Manchester.  He  was  educated  at  Sidney  Sussex 
College,  Cambridge,  and  sat  for  Huntingdonshire  in  the 
first  two  Parliaments  of  Charles  I.  He  was  called  to 
the  Upper  House  as  Lord  Kimbolton  in  1626,  and 
succeeded  his  father  in  1642.  His  name  is  well  known 
in  history  as  that  of  the  leader  of  the  Puritans  in  the 
House  of  Lords,  and  as  the  only  peer  joined  with  the 
five  members  impeached  by  the  King.  He  raised  a 
regiment  and  fought  under  Essex  at  Edgehill,  recon- 
quered Lincolnshire,  and  took  part  in  the  battle  of 
Marston  Moor.  At  this  time  Cromwell  was  his  sub- 
ordinate, and  to  his  directions  Lord  Manchester's 
successes  are  in  all  probability  due.  At  the  second 
battle  of  Newbury,  Lord  Manchester  showed  some 
hesitation  in  following  up  his  success,  and  Cromwell 
accused  him  of  lukewarmness  in  the  cause  from  his 
place  in  the  House  of  Commons.  An  inquiry  was 
instituted,  but  the  Committee  never  carried  out  their 
investigations,  and  in  parliamentary  language  the  matter 
then  dropped.  He  afterwards  held,  among  other  offices, 
that  of  Chancellor  of  the  University  of  Cambridge, 
and  inducted  a  visitation  and  reform  of  that  University. 
He  resisted  the  trial  of  the  King  and  the  foundation  of 
the  Commonwealth,  refused  to  sit  in  Cromwell's  new 
House  of  Lords,  and  was  among  those  Presbyterians 
who  helped  to  bring  about  the  Restoration. 

Cooper  and  Hoskins  were  famous  miniature  painters 
of  the  day.  Samuel  Cooper  was  a  nephew  of  John 
Hoskins,  who  instructed  him  in  the  art  of  miniature 
painting,  in  which  he  soon  out -rivalled  his  master. 
Cooper,  who  is  styled  by  contemporary  eulogists  the 
"  prince  of  limners,"  gave  a  strength  and  freedom  to  the 
art  which  it  had  not  formerly  possessed ;  but  where  he 


Life  at  Chicksands.  123 

attempted  to  express  more  of  the  figure  than  the  head, 
his  drawing  is  defective.  His  painting  was  famous  for 
the  beauty  of  his  carnation  tints,  and  the  loose  flowing 
lines  in  which  he  described  the  hair  of  his  model.  He 
was  a  friend  of  the  famous  Samuel  Butler.  Hoskins, 
though  a  painter  of  less  merit,  had  had  the  honour  of 
painting  His  Majesty  King  Charles  I.,  his  Queen,  and 
many  members  of  the  Court ;  and  had  passed  through 
the  varying  fortunes  of  a  fashionable  portrait -painter, 
whose  position,  leaning  as  it  does  on  the  fickle  approba- 
tion of  the  connoisseurs,  is  always  liable  to  be  wrested 
from  him  by  a  younger  rival. 

It  is  noticeable  that  this  is  the  first  letter  in  which 
we  have  intimation  of  the  world's  gossip  about  Dorothy's 
love  affairs.  We  may,  perhaps  not  unfairly,  trace  the 
growth  of  Dorothy's  affection  for  Temple  by  the  actions 
of  others.  First  her  brother  raises  his  objections,  and 
then  her  relations  begin  to  gossip ;  meanwhile  the  letters 
do  not  grow  less  kind. 

SIR, — You  amaze  me  with  your  story  of  Tom 
Cheeke.  I  am  certain  he  could  not  have  had  it 
where  you  imagine,  and  'tis  a  miracle  to  me  that 
he  remember  that  there  is  such  a  one  in  the 
world  as  his  cousin  D.  O.  I  am  sure  he  has  not 
seen  her  this  six  year,  and  I  think  but  once  in 
his  life.  If  he  has  spread  his  opinion  in  that 
family,  I  shall  quickly  hear  .on't,  for  my  cousin 
Molle  is  now  gone  to  Kimbolton  to  my  Lord 
Manchester,  and  from  there  he  goes  to  Moor  Park 
to  my  cousin  Franklin's,  and  in  one,  or  both,  he 
will  be  sure  to  meet  with  it.  The  matter  is  not 
great,  for  I  confess  I  do  naturally  hate  the  noise 
and  talk  of  the  world,  and  should  be  best  pleased 
never  to  be  known  in't  upon  any  occasion  what- 


124  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

soever ;  yet,  since  it  can  never  be  wholly  avoided, 
one  must  satisfy  oneself  by  doing  nothing  that 
one  need  care  who  knows.  I  do  not  think  d 
propos  to  tell  anybody  that  you  and  I  are  very 
good  friends,  and  it  were  better,  sure,  if  nobody 
knew  it  but  we  ourselves.  But  if,  in  spite  of  all 
our  caution,  it  be  discovered,  'tis  no  treason  nor 
anything  else  that's  ill ;  and  if  anybody  should  tell 
me  that  I  have  had  a  greater  kindness  and  esteem 
for  you  than  for  any  one  besides,  I  do  not  think  I 
should  deny  it ;  howsoever  you  do,  oblige  me  by 
not  owning  any  such  thing,  for  as  you  say,  I  have 
no  reason  to  take  it  ill  that  you  endeavour  to 
preserve  me  a  liberty,  though  I'm  never  likely  to 
make  use  on't.  Besides  that,  I  agree  with  you  too 
that  certainly  'tis  much  better  you  should  owe  my 
kindness  to  nothing  but  your  own  merit  and  my 
inclination,  than  that  there  should  lie  any  other 
necessity  upon  me  of  making  good  my  words  to 
you. 

For  God's  sake  do  not  complain  so  that  you  do 
not  see  me  ;  I  believe  I  do  not  suffer  less  in't  than 
you,  but  'tis  not  to  be  helped.  If  I  had  a  picture 
that  were  fit  for  you,  you  should  have  it.  I  have 
but  one  that's  anything  like,  and  that's  a  great 
one,  but  I  will  send  it  some  time  or  other  to 
Cooper  or  Hoskins,  and  have  a  little  one  drawn 
by  it,  if  I  cannot  be  in  town  to  sit  myself.  You 
undo  me  by  but  dreaming  how  happy  we  might 
have  been,  when  I  consider  how  far  we  are  from 
it  in  reality.  Alas !  how  can  you  talk  of  defying 
fortune ;  nobody  lives  without  it,  and  therefore 


Life  at  Chicksands.  125 

why  should  you  imagine  you  could  ?  I  know  not 
how  my  brother  comes  to  be  so  well  informed  as 
you  say,  but  I  am  certain  he  knows  the  utmost  of 
the  injuries  you  have  received  from  her.  'Tis  not 
possible  she  should  have  used  you  worse  than  he 
says.  We  have  had  another  debate,  but  much 
more  calmly.  'Twas  just  upon  his  going  up  to 
town,  and  perhaps  he  thought  it  not  fit  to  part  in 
anger.  Not  to  wrong  him,  he  never  said  to  me 
(whate'er  he  thought)  a  word  in  prejudice  of 
you  in  your  own  person,  and  I  never  heard  him 
accuse  any  but  your  fortune  and  my  indiscretion. 
And  whereas  I  did  expect  that  (at  least  in  com- 
pliment to  me)  he  should  have  said  we  had  been 
a  couple  of  fools  well  met,  he  says  by  his  troth  he 
does  not  blame  you,  but  bids  me  not  deceive  my- 
self to  think  you  have  any  great  passion  for  me. 

If  you  have  done  with  the  first  part  of  Cyrus,  I 
should  be  glad  Mr.  Hollingsworth  had  it,  because 
I  mentioned  some  such  thing  in  my  last  to  my 
Lady ;  but  there  is  no  haste  of  restoring  the  other 
unless  she  should  send  to  me  for  it,  which  I 
believe  she  will  not.  I  have  a  third  tome  here 
against  you  have  done  with  that  second ;  and  to 
encourage  you,  let  me  assure  you  that  the  more 
you  read  of  them  you  will  like  them  still  better. 
Oh,  me !  whilst  I  think  on't,  let  me  ask  you  one 
question  seriously,  and  pray  resolve  me  truly ; — do 
I  look  so  stately  as  people  apprehend  ?  I  vow  to 
you  I  made  nothing  on't  when  Sir  Emperor  said 
so,  because  I  had  no  great  opinion  of  his  judg- 
ment, but  Mr.  Freeman  makes  me  mistrust  myself 


126  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

extremely,  not  that  I  am  sorry  I  did  appear  so 
to  him  (since  it  kept  me  from  the  displeasure  of 
refusing  an  offer  which  I  do  not  perhaps  deserve), 
but  that  it  is  a  scurvy  quality  in  itself,  and  I  am 
afraid  I  have  it  in  great  measure  if  I  showed  any 
of  it  to  him,  for  whom  I  have  so  much  respect 
and  esteem.  If  it  be  so  you  must  needs  know  it; 
for  though  my  kindness  will  not  let  me  look  so  upon 
you,  you  can  see  what  I  do  to  other  people.  And, 
besides,  there  was  a  time  when  we  ourselves  were 
indifferent  to  one  another ; — did  I  do  so  then,  or 
have  I  learned  it  since  ?  For  God's  sake  tell  me, 
that  I  may  try  to  mend  it.  I  could  wish,  too,  that 
you  would  lay  your  commands  on  me  to  forbear 
fruit :  here  is  enough  to  kill  1000  such  as  I  am, 
and  so  extremely  good,  that  nothing  but  your 
power  can  secure  me ;  therefore  forbid  it  me,  that 
I  may  live  to  be 

Your. 

Letter  25.  —  Dorothy's  dissertations  on  love  and 
marriage  are  always  amusing  in  their  demureness. 
Who  Cousin  Peters  was  we  cannot  now  say,  but  she 
was  evidently  a  relation  and  a  gossip.  The  episode  con- 
cerning Mistress  Harrison  and  the  Queen  is  explained 
by  the  following  quotation  from  the  autobiography  of 
the  Countess  of  Warwick. 

She  is  writing  of  Mr.  Charles  Rich,  and  says :  "  He 
was  then  in  love  with  a  Maid  of  Honour  to  the  Queen, 
one  Mrs.  Hareson,  that  had  been  chamber- fellow  to  my 
sister-in-law  whilst  she  lived  at  Court,  and  that  brought 
on  the  acquaintance  between  him  and  my  sister.  He 
continued  to  be  much  with  us  for  about  five  or  six 
months,  till  my  brother  Broghill  then  (afterwards  Earl  of 


Life  at  Chicksands.  127 

Orrery)  grew  also  to  be  passionately  in  love  with  the 
same  Mrs.  Hareson.  My  brother  then  having  a  quarrel 
with  Mr.  Thomas  Howard,  second  son  to  the  Earl  of 
Berkshire,  about  Mrs.  Hareson  (with  whom  he  also  was 
in  love),  Mr.  Rich  brought  my  brother  a  challenge  from 
Mr.  Howard,  and  was  second  to  him  against  my  brother 
when  they  fought,  which  they  did  without  any  great  hurt 
of  any  side,  being  parted.  This  action  made  Mr.  Rich 
judge  it  not  civil  to  come  to  our  house,  and  so  for  some 
time  forbore  doing  it ;  but  at  last  my  brother's  match 
with  Mrs.  Hareson  being  unhandsomely  (on  her  side) 
broken  off,  when  they  were  so  near  being  married  as  the 
wedding  clothes  were  to  be  made,  and  she  after  married 
Mr.  Thomas  Howard  (to  my  father's  great  satisfaction), 
who  always  was  averse  to  it,  though,  to  comply  with  my 
brother's  passion,  he  consented  to  it."  There  is  a  refer- 
ence to  the  duel  in  a  letter  of  Lord  Cork,  which  fixes 
the  date  as  1639-40,  but  Mr.  Nevile's  name  is  nowhere 
mentioned. 

Lord  Broghill  is  well  known  to  the  history  of  that 
time,  both  literary  and  political.  He  was  Roger  Boyle, 
afterwards  Earl  of  Orrery,  the  fifth  son  of  the  "great 
Earl  of  Cork."  He  acted  for  the  Parliament  against  the 
Catholics  in  Ireland,  but  was  still  thought  to  retain  some 
partiality  for  the  King's  party.  Cromwell,  however, 
considered  himself  secure  in  Lord  Broghill's  attachment ; 
and,  indeed,  he  continued  to  serve  not  only  Cromwell 
during  his  lifetime,  but  his  son  Richard,  after  his  father's 
death,  with  great  fidelity.  Lord  Broghill  was  active  in 
forwarding  the  Restoration  in  Ireland,  and  in  reward  of 
his  services  was  made  Earl  of  Orrery.  He  died  in  1679. 

SIR, — You  have  furnished  me  now  with  argu- 
ments to  convince  my  brother,  if  he  should  ever 
enter  on  the  dispute  again.  In  earnest,  I  believed 
all  this  before,  but  'twas  something  an  ignorant 


128  Letters  from  Dorothy  Os borne. 

kind  of  faith  in  me.  I  was  satisfied  myself,  but 
could  not  tell  how  to  persuade  another  of  the 
truth  on't ;  and  to  speak  indifferently,  there  are 
such  multitudes  that  abuse  the  names  of  love  and 
friendship,  and  so  very  few  that  either  understand 
or  practise  it  in  reality,  that  it  may  raise  great 
doubts  whether  there  is  any  such  thing  in  the 
world  or  not,  and  such  as  do  not  find  it  in  them- 
selves will  hardly  believe  'tis  anywhere.  But  it 
will  easily  be  granted,  that  most  people  make 
haste  to  be  miserable ;  that  they  put  on  their 
fetters  as  inconsiderately  as  a  woodcock  runs  into 
a  noose,  and  are  carried  by  the  weakest  con- 
siderations imaginable  to  do  a  thing  of  the 
greatest  consequence  of  anything  that  concerns 
this  world.  I  was  told  by  one  (who  pretends  to 
know  him  very  well)  that  nothing  tempted  my 
cousin  Osborne  to  marry  his  lady  (so  much)  as 
that  she  was  an  Earl's  daughter;  which  methought 
was  the  prettiest  fancy,  and  had  the  least  of  sense 
in  it,  of  any  I  had  heard  on,  considering  that  it 
was  no  addition  to  her  person,  that  he  had  honour 
enough  before  for  his  fortune,  and  how  little  it  is 
esteemed  in  this  age, — if  it  be  anything  in  a  better, 
— which  for  my  part  I  am  not  well  satisfied  in. 
Beside  that,  in  this  particular  it  does  not  sound 
handsomely.  My  Lady  Bridget  Osborne  makes 
a  worse  name  a  great  deal,  methinks,  than  plain 
my  Lady  Osborne  would  do. 

I  have  been  studying  how  Tom  Cheeke  might 
come  by  his  intelligence,  and  I  verily  believe  he 
has  it  from  my  cousin  Peters.  She  lives  near 


Life  at  Chick  sands.  129 

them  in  Essex,  and  in  all  likelihood,  for  want  of 
other  discourse  to  entertain  him  withal,  she  has 
come  out  with  all  she  knows.  The  last  time  I 
saw  her  she  asked  me  for  you  before  she  had 
spoke  six  words  to  me;  and  I,  who  of  all  things  do 
not  love  to  make  secrets  of  trifles,  told  her  I  had 
seen  you  that  day.  She  said  no  more,  nor  I  neither; 
but  perhaps  it  worked  in  her  little  brain.  The  best 
on't  is,  the  matter  is  not  great,  for  though  I  con- 
fess I  had  rather  nobody  knew  it,  yet  'tis  that  I 
shall  never  be  ashamed  to  own. 

How  kindly  do  I  take  these  civilities  of  your 
father's ;  in  earnest,  you  cannot  imagine  how  his 
letter  pleased  me.  I  used  to  respect  him  merely 
as  he  was  your  father,  but  I  begin  now  to  owe  it 
to  himself;  all  that  he  says  is  so  kind  and  so 
obliging,  so  natural  and  so  easy,  that  one  may  see 
'tis  perfectly  his  disposition,  and  has  nothing  to 
disguise  in  it.  'Tis  long  since  that  I  knew 
how  well  he  writ,  perhaps  you  have  forgot  that 
you  showed  me  a  letter  of  his  (to  a  French 
Marquis,  I  think,  or  some  such  man  of  his 
acquaintance)  when  I  first  knew  you ;  I  remember 
it  very  well,  and  that  I  thought  it  as  handsome  a 
letter  as  I  had  seen ;  but  I  have  not  skill  it  seems, 
for  I  like  yours  too. 

I  can  pardon  all  my  cousin  Franklin's  little 
plots  of  discovery,  if  she  believed  herself  when 
she  said  she  was  confident  our  humours  would 
agree  extremely  well.  In  earnest,  I  think  they  do ; 
for  I  mark  that  I  am  always  of  your  opinion, 
unless  it  be  when  you  will  not  allow  that  you 

I 


130  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

write  well,  for  there  I  am  too  much  concerned. 
Jane  told  me  t'other  day  very  soberly  that  we 
write  very  much  alike.  I  think  she  said  it  with 
an  intent  to  please  me,  and  did  not  fail  in't ;  but 
if  you  write  ill,  'twas  no  great  compliment  to  me. 
A  propos  de  Jane,  she  bids  me  tell  you  that,  if  you 
liked  your  marmalade  of  quince,  she  would  send 
you  more,  and  she  thinks  better,  that  has  been 
made  since. 

'Twas  a  strange  caprice,  as  you  say,  of  Mrs. 
Harrison,  but  there  is  fate  as  well  as  love  in 
those  things.  The  Queen  took  the  greatest 
pains  to  persuade  her  from  it  that  could  be  ;  and 
(as  somebody  says,  I  know  not  who)  "  Majesty  is 
no  ill  orator ; "  but  all  would  not  do.  When  she 
had  nothing  to  say  for  herself,  she  told  her  she 
had  rather  beg  with  Mr.  Howard  than  live  in  the 
greatest  plenty  that  could  be  with  either  my  Lord 
Broghill,  Charles  Rich,  or  Mr.  Nevile, — for  all 
these  were  dying  for  her  then.  I  am  afraid  she 
has  altered  her  opinion  since  'twas  too  late,  for  I 
do  not  take  Mr.  Howard  to  be  a  person  that  can 
deserve  one  should  neglect  all  the  world  for  him. 
And  where  there  is  no  reason  to  uphold  a  passion, 
it  will  sink  of  itself;  but  where  there  is,  it  may  last 
eternally. — I  am  yours. 

Letter  26. 

SIR, — The  day  I  should  have  received  your 
letter  I  was  invited  to  dine  at  a  rich  widow's 
(whom  I  think  I  once  told  you  of,  and  offered  my 


Life  at  Chicksands.  131 

service  in  case  you  thought  fit  to  make  addresses 
there) ;  and  she  was  so  kind,  and  in  so  good 
humour,  that  if  I  had  had  any  commission  I  should 
have  thought  it  a  very  fit  time  to  speak.  We 
had  a  huge  dinner,  though  the  company  was  only 
of  her  own  kindred  that  are  in  the  house  with  her 
and  what  I  brought ;  but  she  is  broke  loose  from 
an  old  miserable  husband  that  lived  so  long,  she 
thinks  if  she  does  not  make  haste  she  shall  not 
have  time  to  spend  what  he  left.  She  is  old  and 
was  never  handsome,  and  yet  is  courted  a  thou- 
sand times  more  than  the  greatest  beauty  in  the 
world  would  be  that  had  not  a  fortune.  We  could 
not  eat  in  quiet  for  the  letters  and  presents  that 
came  in  from  people  that  would  not  have  looked 
upon  her  when  they  had  met  her  if  she  had  been 
left  poor.  I  could  not  but  laugh  to  myself  at  the 
meanness  of  their  humour,  and  was  merry  enough 
all  day,  for  the  company  was  very  good ;  and 
besides,  I  expected  to  find  when  I  came  home  a 
letter  from  you  that  would  be  more  a  feast  and 
company  to  me  than  all  that  was  there.  But 
never  anybody  was  so  defeated  as  I  was  to  find 
none.  I  could  not  imagine  the  reason,  only  I 
assured  myself  it  was  no  fault  of  yours,  but 
perhaps  a  just  punishment  upon  me  for  having 
been  too  much  pleased  in  a  company  where  you 
were  not. 

After  supper  my  brother  and  I  fell  into  dispute 
about  riches,  and  the  great  advantages  of  it ;  he 
instanced  in  the  widow  that  it  made  one  respected 
in  the  world.  I  said  'twas  true,  but  that  was  a 


132  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

respect  I  should  not  at  all  value  when  I  owed  it 
only  to  my  fortune.  And  we  debated  it  so  long 
till  we  had  both  talked  ourselves  weary  enough  to 
go  to  bed.  Yet  I  did  not  sleep  so  well  but  that  I 
chid  my  maid  for  waking  me  in  the  morning,  till 
she  stopped  my  mouth  with  saying  she  had  letters 
for  me.  I  had  not  patience  to  stay  till  I  could 
rise,  but  made  her  tie  up  all  the  curtains  to  let  in 
light ;  and  among  some  others  I  found  my  dear 
letter  that  was  first  to  be  read,  and  which  made 
all  the  rest  not  worth  the  reading.  I  could  not 
but  wonder  to  find  in  it  that  my  cousin  Franklin 
should  want  a  true  friend  when  'tis  thought  she 
has  the  best  husband  in  the  world ;  he  was  so 
passionate  for  her  before  he  had  her,  and  so 
pleased  with  her  since,  that,  in  earnest,  I  did  not 
think  it  possible  she  could  have  anything  left  to 
wish  for  that  she  had  not  already  in  such  a 
husband  with  such  a  fortune.  But  she  can  best 
tell  whether  she  is  happy  or  not ;  only  if  she  be 
not,  I  do  not  see  how  anybody  else  can  hope  it. 
I  know  her  the  least  of  all  the  sisters,  and  perhaps 
'tis  to  my  advantage  that  she  knows  me  no  more, 
since  she  speaks  so  obligingly  of  me.  But  do 
you  think  it  was  altogether  without  design  she 
spoke  it  to  you  ?  When  I  remember  she  is  Tom 
Cheeke's  sister,  I  am  apt  to  think  she  might  have 
heard  his  news,  and  meant  to  try  whether  there 
was  anything  of  truth  in't  My  cousin  Molle,  I 
think,  means  to  end  the  summer  there.  They 
say,  indeed,  'tis  a  very  fine  seat,  but  if  I  did  not 
mistake  Sir  Thomas  Cheeke,  he  told  me  there  was 


Life  at  Chicksands.  133 

never  a  good  room  in  the  house.  I  was  wonder- 
ing how  you  came  by  an  acquaintance  there, 
because  I  had  never  heard  you  speak  that  you 
knew  them.  I  never  saw  him  in  my  life,  but  he 
is  famous  for  a  kind  husband.  Only  'twas  found 
fault  with  that  he  could  not  forbear  kissing  his 
wife  before  company,  a  foolish  trick  that  young 
married  men  are  apt  to ;  he  has  left  it  long  since, 
I  suppose.  But,  seriously,  'tis  as  ill  a  sight  as  one 
would  wish  to  see,  and  appears  very  rude,  me- 
thinks,  to  the  company. 

What  a  strange  fellow  this  goldsmith  is,  he 
has  a  head  fit  for  nothing  but  horns.  I  chid 
him  once  for  a  seal  he  set  me  just  of  this 
fashion  and  the  same  colours.  If  he  were  to 
make  twenty  they  should  be  all  so,  his  invention 
can  stretch  no  further  than  blue  and  red.  It 
makes  me  think  of  the  fellow  that  could  paint 
nothing  but  a  flower-de-luce,  who,  when  he  met 
with  one  that  was  so  firmly  resolved  to  have 
a  lion  for  his  sign  that  there  was  no  persuading 
him  out  on't,  "  Well,"  says  the  painter,  "  let  it  be 
a  lion  then,  but  it  shall  be  as  like  a  flower-de- 
luce  as  e'er  you  saw."  So,  because  you  would 
have  it  a  dolphin,  he  consented  to  it,  but  it  is  like 
an  ill-favoured  knot  of  ribbon.  I  did  not  say 
anything  of  my  father's  being  ill  of  late ;  I  think  I 
told  you  before,  he  kept  his  chamber  ever  since 
his  last  sickness,  and  so  he  does  still.  Yet  I 
cannot  say  that  he  is  at  all  sick,  but  has  so  general 
a  weakness  upon  him  that  I  am  much  afraid  their 
opinion  of  him  has  too  much  of  truth  in  it,  and  do 


134  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

extremely  apprehend  how  the  winter  may  work 
upon  him.  Will  you  pardon  this  strange  scribbled 
letter,  and  the  disorderliness  on't  ?  I  know  you 
would,  though  I  should  not  tell  you  that  I  am  not 
so  much  at  leisure  as  I  used  to  be.  You  can 
forgive  your  friends  anything,  and  when  I  am  not 
the  faithfulest  of  those,  never  forgive  me.  You 
may  direct  your  letters  how  you  please,  here  will 
be  nobody  to  receive  it  but 

Your. 

Letter  27. — Althorp,  in  Northamptonshire,  was  the 
seat  of  Lady  Sunderland's  first  husband,  Robert  Lord 
Spencer. 

SIR, — Your  last  came  safe,  and  I  shall  follow 
your  direction  for  the  address  of  this,  though,  as 
you  say,  I  cannot  imagine  what  should  tempt 
anybody  to  so  severe  a  search  for  them,  unless 
it  be  that  he  is  not  yet  fully  satisfied  to  what 
degree  our  friendship  is  grown,  and  thinks  he 
may  best  inform  himself  from  them.  In  earnest, 
'twould  not  be  unpleasant  to  hear  our  discourse. 
He  forms  his  with  so  much  art  and  design,  and 
is  so  pleased  with  the  hopes  of  making  some 
discovery,  and  I  [who]  know  him  as  well  as  he 
does  himself,  cannot  but  give  myself  the  recrea- 
tion sometimes  of  confounding  him  and  destroying 
all  that  his  busy  head  had  been  working  on  since 
the  last  conference.  He  gives  me  some  trouble 
with  his  suspicions  ;  yet,  on'  my  conscience,  he  is 
a  greater  to  himself,  and  I  deal  with  so  much 
franchise  as  to  tell  him  so  ;  and  yet  he  has  no 


Life  at  Chicksands.  135 

more  the  heart  to  ask  me  directly  what  he 
would  so  fain  know,  than  a  jealous  man  has  to 
ask  (one  that  might  tell  him)  whether  he  were  a 
cuckold  or  not,  for  fear  of  being  resolved  of  that 
which  is  yet  a  doubt  to  him.  My  eldest  brother 
is  not  so  inquisitive ;  he  satisfies  himself  with 
persuading  me  earnestly  to  marry,  and  takes 
no  notice  of  anything  that  may  hinder  me,  but 
a  carelessness  of  my  fortune,  or  perhaps  an 
aversion  to  a  kind  of  life  that  appears  to  have 
less  of  freedom  in't  than  that  which  at  present 
I  enjoy.  But,  sure,  he  gives  himself  another 
reason,  for  'tis  not  very  long  since  he  took 
occasion  to  inquire  for  you  very  kindly  of  me  ; 
and  though  I  could  then  give  but  little  account 
of  you,  he  smiled  as  if  he  did  not  altogether 
believe  me,  and  afterwards  maliciously  said  he 
wondered  you  did  not  marry.  And  I  seemed  to 
do  so  too,  and  said,  if  I  knew  any  woman  that 
had  a  great  fortune,  and  were  a  person  worthy  of 
you,  I  should  wish  her  you  with  all  my  heart. 
"  But,  sister,"  says  he,  "  would  you  have  him 
love  her  ?  "  "  Do  you  doubt  it  ?  "  did  I  say  ; 
"  he  were  not  happy  in't  else."  He  laughed, 
and  said  my  humour  was  pleasant ;  but  he  made 
some  question  whether  it  was  natural  or  not. 
He  cannot  be  so  unjust  as  to  let  me  lose  him, 
sure,  I  was  kind  to  him  though  I  had  some  reason 
not  to  take  it  very  well  when  he  made  that  a 
secret  to  me  which  was  known  to  so  many  that 
did  not  know  him  ;  but  we  shall  never  fall  out,  I 
believe,  we  are  not  apt  to  it,  neither  of  us. 


136  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

If  you  are  come  back  from  Epsom,  I  may  ask 
you  how  you  like  drinking  water  ?  I  have  wished 
it  might  agree  as  well  with  you  as  it  did  with  me ; 
and  if  it  were  as  certain  that  the  same  thing 
would  do  us  good  as  'tis  that  the  same  thing 
would  please  us,  I  should  not  need  to  doubt  it. 
Otherwise  my  wishes  do  not  signify  much,  but  I  am 
forbid  complaints,  or  to  express  my  fears.  And  be 
it  so,  only  you  must  pardon  me  if  I  cannot  agree 
to  give  you  false  hopes  ;  I  must  be  deceived  myself 
before  I  can  deceive  you,  and  I  have  so  accustomed 
myself  to  tell  you  all  that  I  think,  that  I  must  either 
say  nothing,  or  that  which  I  believe  to  be  true. 

I  cannot  say  but  that  I  have  wanted  Jane ; 
but  it  has  been  rather  to  have  somebody  to  talk 
with  of  you,  than  that  I  needed  anybody  to  put  me 
in  mind  of  you,  and  with  all  her  diligence  I  should 
have  often  prevented  her  in  that  discourse.  Were 
you  at  Althorp  when  you  saw  my  Lady  Sunder- 
land  and  Mr.  Smith,  or  are  they  in  town  ?  I 
have  heard,  indeed,  that  they  are  very  happy; 
but  withal  that,  as  she  is  a  very  extraordinary 
person  herself,  so  she  aimed  at  doing  extra- 
ordinary things,  and  when  she  had  married  Mr. 
Smith  (because  some  people  were  so  bold  as  to 
think  she  did  it  because  she  loved  him)  she 
undertook  to  convince  the  world  that  what  she 
had  done  was  in  mere  pity  to  his  sufferings, 
and  that  she  could  not  go  a  step  lower  to  meet 
anybody  than  that  led  her,  though  when  she 
thought  there  were  no  eyes  on  her,  she  was 
more  gracious  to  him.  But  perhaps  this  might 


Life  at  Chicksands.  137 

not  be  true,  or  it  may  be  she  is  now  grown 
weary  of  that  constraint  she  put  upon  herself. 
I  should  have  been  sadder  than  you  if  I  had 
been  their  neighbour  to  have  seen  them  so  kind  ; 
as  I  must  have  been  if  I  had  married  the 
Emperor.  He  used  to  brag  to  me  always  of  a 
great  acquaintance  he  had  there,  what  an  esteem 
my  lady  had  for  him,  and  had  the  vanity  (not  to 
call  it  impudence)  to  talk  sometimes  as  if  he 
would  have  had  me  believe  he  might  have  had 
her,  and  would  not ;  I'll  swear  I  blushed  for  him 
when  I  saw  he  did  not.  He  told  me  too,  that 
though  he  had  carried  his  addresses  to  me  with 
all  the  privacy  that  was  possible,  because  he  saw  I 
liked  it  best,  and  that  'twas  partly  his  own  humour 
too,  yet  she  had  discovered  it,  and  could  tell  that 
there  had  been  such  a  thing,  and  that  it  was  broke 
off  again,  she  knew  not  why ;  which  certainly  was 
a  lie,  as  well  as  the  other,  for  I  do  not  think  she 
ever  heard  there  was  such  a  one  in  the  world  as 

Your  faithful  friend. 

Letter  28. — Dorothy's  allusion  to  the  "  Seven  Sleepers  " 
refers  to  a  story  which  occurs  in  the  Golden  Legend  and 
other  places,  of  seven  noble  youths  of  Ephesus,  who  fled 
from  persecution  to  a  cave  in  Mount  Celion.  After  two 
hundred  and  thirty  years  they  awoke,  but  only  to  die  soon 
afterwards.  The  fable  is  said  to  have  arisen  from  a  mis- 
interpretation of  the  text,  "They  fell  asleep  in  the  Lord." 

SIR, — I  did  not  lay  it  as  a  fault  to  your  charge 
that  you  were  not  good  at  disguise ;  if  it  be  one, 
I  am  too  guilty  on't  myself  to  accuse  another. 


138  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

And  though  I  have  been  told  it  shows  an  un- 
practisedness  in  the  world,  and  betrays  to  all 
that  understand  it  better,  yet  since  it  is  a 
quality  I  was  not  born  with,  nor  ever  like  to  get, 
I  have  always  thought  good  to  maintain  that  it 
was  better  not  to  need  it  than  to  have  it. 

I  give  you  many  thanks  for  your  care  of  my 
Irish  dog,  but  I  am  extremely  out  of  countenance 
your  father  should  be  troubled  with  it.  Sure,  he 
will  think  I  have  a  most  extravagant  fancy ;  but 
do  me  the  right  as  to  let  him  know  I  am  not 
so  possessed  with  it  as  to  consent  he  should  be 
employed  in  such  a  commission. 

Your  opinion  of  my  eldest  brother  is,  I  think, 
very  just,  and  when  I  said  maliciously,  I  meant  a 
French  malice,  which  you  know  does  not  signify 
the  same  with  an  English  one.  I  know  not 
whether  I  told  it  you  or  not,  but  I  concluded  (from 
what  you  said  of  your  indisposition)  that  it  was 
very  like  the  spleen  ;  but  perhaps  I  foresaw  you 
would  not  be  willing  to  own  a  disease  that  the 
severe  part  of  the  world  holds  to  be  merely 
imaginary  and  affected,  and  therefore  proper  only 
to  women.  However,  I  cannot  but  wish  you  had 
stayed  longer  at  Epsom  and  drunk  the  waters 
with  more  order  though  in  a  less  proportion, 
But  did  you  drink  them  immediately  from  the 
well  ?  I  remember  I  was  forbid  it,  and  methought 
with  a  great  deal  of  reason,  for  (especially  at  this 
time  of  year)  the  well  is  so  low,  and  there  is  such 
a  multitude  to  be  served  out  on't,  that  you  can 
hardly  get  any  but  what  is  thick  and  troubled  ; 


Life  at  Ckicksands.  139 

and  I  have  marked  that  when  it  stood  all  night 
(for  that  was  my  direction)  the  bottom  of  the 
vessel  it  stood  in  would  be  covered  an  inch  thick 
with  a  white  clay,  which,  sure,  has  no  great  virtue 
in't,  and  is  not  very  pleasant  to  drink. 

What  a  character  of  a  young  couple  you  give 
me  !  Would  you  would  ask  some  one  who  knew 
him,  whether  he  be  not  much  more  of  an  ass 
since  his  marriage  than  he  was  before.  I  have 
some  reason  to  doubt  that  it  alters  people 
strangely.  I  made  a  visit  t'other  day  to  welcome 
a  lady  into  this  country  whom  her  husband  had 
newly  brought  down,  and  because  I  knew  him, 
though  not  her,  and  she  was  a  stranger  here, 
'twas  a  civility  I  owed  them.  But  you  cannot 
imagine  how  I  was  surprised  to  see  a  man  that 
I  had  known  so  handsome,  so  capable  of  being 
made  a  pretty  gentleman  (for  though  he  was  no 
proud  philosopher,  as  the  Frenchmen  say,  he  was 
that  which  good  company  and  a  little  knowledge 
of  the  world  would  have  made  equal  to  many  that 
think  themselves  very  well,  and  are  thought  so), 
transformed  into  the  direct  shape  of  a  great  boy 
newly  come  from  school.  To  see  him  wholly 
taken  up  with  running  on  errands  for  his  wife,  and 
teaching  her  little  dog  tricks  !  And  this  was  the 
best  of  him  ;  for  when  he  was  at  leisure  to  talk, 
he  would  suffer  no  one  else  to  do  it,  and  what  he 
said,  and  the  noise  he  made,  if  you  had  heard  it, 
you  would  have  concluded  him  drunk  with  joy 
that  he  had  a  wife  and  a  pack  of  hounds.  I  was 
so  weary  on't  that  I  made  haste  home,  and  could 


140  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

not  but  think  of  the  change  all  the  way  till  my 
brother  (who  was  with  me)  thought  me  sad,  and 
so,  to  put  me  in  better  humour,  said  he  believed 
I  repented  me  I  had  not  this  gentleman,  now  I 
saw  how  absolutely  his  wife  governed  him.  But 
I  assured  him,  that  though  I  thought  it  very  fit 
such  as  he  should  be  governed,  yet  I  should  not 
like  the  employment  by  no  means.  It  becomes  no 
woman,  and  did  so  ill  with  this  lady  that  in  my 
opinion  it  spoiled  a  good  face  and  a  very  fine 
gown.  Yet  the  woman  you  met  upon  the  way 
governed  her  husband  and  did  it  handsomely.  It 
was,  as  you  say,  a  great  example  of  friendship,  and 
much  for  the  credit  of  our  sex. 

You  are  too  severe  to  Walker.  I'll  undertake 
he  would  set  me  twenty  seals  for  nothing  rather 
than  undergo  your  wrath.  I  am  in  no  haste  for 
it,  and  so  he  does  it.  well  we  will  not  fall  out; 
perhaps  he  is  not  in  the  humour  of  keeping  his 
word  at  present,  and  nobody  can  blame  him  if  he 
be  often  in  an  ill  one.  But  though  I  am  merciful 
to  him,  as  to  one  that  has  suffered  enough  already, 
I  cannot  excuse  you  that  profess  to  be  my  friend 
and  yet  are  content  to  let  me  live  in  such  ignor- 
ance, write  to  me  every  week,  and  yet  never  send 
me  any  of  the  new  phrases  of  the  town.  I  could 
tell  you,  without  abandoning  the  truth,  that  it  is 
part  of  your  devoyre  to  correct  the  imperfections 
you  find  under  my  hand,  and  that  my  trouble 
resembles  my  wonder  you  can  let  me  be  dis- 
satisfied. I  should  never  have  learnt  any  of  these 
fine  things  from  you ;  and,  to  say  truth,  I  know 


Life  at  CJiicksands.  141 

not  whether  I  shall  from  anybody  else,  if  to  learn 
them  be  to  understand  them.  Pray  what  is  meant 
by  wellness  and  unwellness ;  and  why  is  to  some 
extreme  better  than  to  some  extremity  ?  I  believe 
I  shall  live  here  till  there  is  quite  a  new  language 
spoke  where  you  are,  and  shall  come  out  like  one 
of  the  Seven  Sleepers,  a  creature  of  another  age. 
But  'tis  no  matter  so  you  understand  me,  though 
nobody  else  do,  when  I  say  how  much  I  am 

Your  faithful. 

Letter  29. 

SIR, — I  can  give  you  leave  to  doubt  anything 
but  my  kindness,  though  I  can  assure  you  I  spake 
as  I  meant  when  I  said  I  had  not  the  vanity  to 
believe  I  deserv'd  yours,  for  I  am  not  certain 
whether  'tis  possible  for  anybody  to  deserve  that 
another  should  love  them  above  themselves, 
though  I  am  certain  many  may  deserve  it  more 
than  me.  But  not  to  dispute  this  with  you,  let 
me  tell  you  that  I  am  thus  far  of  your  opinion, 
that  upon  some  natures  nothing  is  so  powerful  as 
kindness,  and  that  I  should  give  that  to  yours 
which  all  the  merit  in  the  world  besides  would 
not  draw  from  me.  I  spake  as  if  I  had  not  done 
so  already  ;  but  you  may  choose  whether  you  will 
believe  me  or  not,  for,  to  say  truth,  I  do  not  much 
believe  myself  in  that  point.  No,  all  the  kindness 
I  have  or  ever  had  is  yours  ;  nor  shall  I  ever  repent 
it  so,  unless  you  shall  ever  repent  yours.  Without 
telling  you  what  the  inconveniences  of  your  coming 
hither  are,  you  may  believe  they  are  considerable, 


142  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

or  else  I  should  not  deny  you  or  myself  the 
happiness  of  seeing  one  another ;  and  if  you  dare 
trust  me  where  I  am  equally  concerned  with  you, 
I  shall  take  hold  of  the  first  opportunity  that  may 
either  admit  you  here  or  bring  me  nearer  you. 
Sure  you  took  somebody  else  for  my  cousin 
Peters  ?  I  can  never  believe  her  beauty  able  to 
smite  anybody.  I  saw  her  when  I  was  last  in 
town,  but  she  appear'd  wholly  the  same  to  me, 
she  was  at  St.  Malo,  with  all  her  innocent  good 
nature  too,  and  asked  for  you  so  kindly,  that  I  am 
sure  she  cannot  have  forgot  you ;  nor  do  I  think 
she  has  so  much  address  as  to  do  it  merely  in 
compliment  to  me.  No,  you  are  mistaken  certainly; 
what  should  she  do  amongst  all  that  company, 
unless  she  be  towards  a  wedding  ?  She  has  been 
kept  at  home,  poor  soul,  and  suffer'd  so  much  of 
purgatory  in  this  world  that  she  needs  not  fear  it 
in  the  next ;  and  yet  she  is  as  merry  as  ever  she 
was,  which  perhaps  might  make  her  look  young, 
.but  that  she  laughs  a  little  too  much,  and  that 
will  bring  wrinkles,  they  say.  Oh,  me !  now  I  talk 
of  laughing,  it  makes  me  think  of  poor  Jane.  I 
had  a  letter  from  her  the  other  day  ;  she  desired 
me  to  present  her  humble  service  to  her  master,— 
she  did  mean  you,  sure,  for  she  named  everybody 
else  that  she  owes  any  service  to, — and  bid  me 
say  that  she  would  keep  her  word  with  him.  God 
knows  what  you  have  agreed  on  together.  She 
tells  me  she  shall  stay  long  enough  there  to  hear 
from  me  once  more,  and  then  she  is  resolved  to 
come  away. 


Life  at  Chicksands.  143 

Here  is  a  seal,  which  pray  give  Walker  to  set 
for  me  very  handsomely,  and  not  of  any  of  those 
fashions  he  made  my  others,  but  of  something 
that  may  differ  from  the  rest.  'Tis  a  plain  head, 
but  not  ill  cut,  I  think.  My  eldest  brother  is  now 
here,  and  we  expect  my  youngest  shortly,  and 
then  we  shall  be  altogether,  which  I  do  not  think 
we  ever  were  twice  in  our  lives.  My  niece  is  still 
with  me,  but  her  father  threatens  to  fetch  her 
away.  If  I  can  keep  her  to  Michaelmas  I  may 
perhaps  bring  her  up  to  town  myself,  and  take 
that  occasion  of  seeing  you  ;  but  I  have  no  other 
business  that  is  worth  my  taking  a  journey,  for  I 
have  had  another  summons  from  my  aunt,  and  I 
protest  I  am  afraid  I  shall  be  in  rebellion  there ; 
but  'tis  not  to  be  helped.  The  widow  writes  me 
word,  too,  that  I  must  expect  her  here  about  a 
month  hence ;  and  I  find  that  I  shall  want  no 
company,  but  only  that  which  I  would  have,  and 
for  which  I  could  willingly  spare  all  the  rest. 
Will  it  be  ever  thus  ?  I  am  afraid  it  will.  There 
has  been  complaints  made  on  me  already  to  my 
eldest  brother  (only  in  general,  or  at  least  he  takes 
notice  of  no  more),  what  offers  I  refuse,  and  what 
a  strange  humour  has  possessed  me  of  being  deaf 
to  the  advice  of  all  my  friends.  I  find  I  am  to  be 
baited  by  them  all  by  turns.  They  weary  them- 
selves, and  me  too,  to  very  little  purpose,  for  to 
my  thinking  they  talk  the  most  impertinently  that 
ever  people  did ;  and  I  believe  they  are  not  in  my 
debt,  but  think  the  same  of  me.  Sometimes  I  tell 
them  I  will  not  marry,  and  then  they  laugh  at 


144  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

me ;  sometimes  I  say,  "Not  yet,"  and  they  laugh 
more,  and  would  make  me  believe  I  shall  be  old 
within  this  twelvemonth.  I  tell  them  I  shall  be 
wiser  then.  They  say  'twill  be  to  no  purpose. 
Sometimes  we  are  in  earnest  and  sometimes  in 
jest,  but  always  saying  something  since  my 
brother  Henry  found  his  tongue  again.  If  you 
were  with  me  I  could  make  sport  of  all  this ;  but 
"patience  is  my  penance"  is  somebody's  motto, 
and  I  think  it  must  be  mine. 

I  am  your. 

Letter  30. — Here  is  Lord  Lisle's  embassage  discussed 
again  !  We  know  that  in  the  end  it  comes  to  nothing ; 
Whitelocke  going,  but  without  Temple.  The  statute 
commanding  the  marriage  ceremony  to  be  conducted 
before  Justices  of  the  Peace  was  passed  in  August  1653  ; 
it  is  to  some  extent  by  such  references  as  these  that  the 
letters  have  been  dated  and  grouped.  The  Marriage 
Act  of  1653,  with  the  other  statutes  of  this  period,  have 
been  erased  from  the  Statute  Book ;  but  a  draft  of  it  in 
Somers'  Tracts  remains  to  us  for  reference.  It  contained 
provisions  for  the  names  of  those  who  intended  being 
joined  together  in  holy  matrimony  to  be  posted,  with 
certain  other  particulars,  upon  the  door  of  the  common 
meeting-house,  commonly  called  the  parish  church  or 
chapel ;  and  after  the  space  of  three  weeks  the  parties, 
with  two  witnesses,  might  go  before  a  magistrate,  who, 
having  satisfied  himself,  by  means  of  examining  witnesses 
on  oath  or  otherwise,  that  all  the  preliminaries  com- 
manded by  the  Act  had  been  properly  fulfilled,  further 
superintended  the  proceedings  to  perfect  the  said 
intended  marriage  as  follows : — The  man  taking  the 
woman  by  the  hand  pronounced  these  words,  "  I,  A.  B., 
do  hereby  in  the  presence  of  God  take  thee  C.  D.  to  my 


Life  at  Chicksands.  145 

wedded  wife,  and  do  also  in  the  presence  of  God,  and 
before  these  witnesses,  promise  to  be  unto  thee  a  loving 
and  faithful  husband."  Then  the  woman  in  similar  formula 
promised  to  be  a  "loving,  faithful,  and  obedient  wife," 
and  the  magistrate  pronounced  the  parties  to  be  man 
and  wife.  This  ceremony,  and  this  only,  was  to  be  a 
legal  marriage.  It  is  probable  that  parties  might  and 
did  add  a  voluntary  religious  rite  to  this  compulsory 
civil  ceremony,  as  is  done  at  this  day  in  many  foreign 
countries. 


SIR, — You  cannot  imagine  how  I  was  surpris'd 
to  find  a  letter  that  began  "  Dear  brother ; "  I 
thought  sure  it  could  not  belong  at  all  to  me,  and 
was  afraid  I  had  lost  one  by  it ;  that  you  intended 
me  another,  and  in  your  haste  had  mistook  this 
for  that.  Therefore,  till  I  found  the  permission 
you  gave  me,  I  had  laid  it  by  with  a  resolution 
not  to  read  it,  but  to  send  it  again.  If  I  had  done 
so,  I  had  missed  a  great  deal  of  satisfaction  which 
I  received  from  it.  In  earnest,  I  cannot  tell  you 
how  kindly  I  take  all  the  obliging  things  you  say 
in  it  of  me ;  nor  how  pleased  I  should  be  (for 
your  sake)  if  I  were  able  to  make  good  the 
character  you  give  me  to  your  brother,  and  that 
I  did  not  owe  a  great  part  of  it  wholly  to  your 
friendship  for  me.  I  dare  call  nothing  on't  my 
own  but  faithfulness ;  that  I  may  boast  of  with 
truth  and  modesty,  since  'tis  but  a  simple  virtue ; 
and  though  some  are  without  it,  yet  'tis  so 
absolutely  necessary,  that  nobody  wanting  it 
can  be  worthy  of  any  esteem.  I  see  you  speak 
well  of  me  to  other  people,  though  you  complain 

K 


146  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

always  to  me.  I  know  not  how  to  believe  I 
should  misuse  your  heart  as  you  pretend ;  I  never 
had  any  quarrel  to  it,  and  since  our  friendship  it 
has  been  dear  to  me  as  my  own.  'Tis  rather, 
sure,  that  you  have  a  mind  to  try  another,  than 
that  any  dislike  of  yours  makes  you  turn  it  over 
to  me ;  but  be  it  as  it  will,  I  am  contented  to 
stand  to  the  loss,  and  perhaps  when  you  have 
changed  you  will  find  so  little  difference  that 
you'll  be  calling  for  your  own  again.  Do  but 
assure  me  that  I  shall  find  you  almost  as  merry 
as  my  Lady  Anne  Wentworth  is  always,  and 
nothing  shall  fright  me  from  my  purpose  of  seeing 
you  as  soon  as  I  can  with  any  conveniency.  I 
would  not  have  you  insensible  of  our  misfortunes, 
but  I  would  not  either  that  you  should  revenge 
them  on  yourself;  no,  that  shows  a  want  of 
constancy  (which  you  will  hardly  yield  to  be  your 
fault) ;  but  'tis  certain  that  there  was  never  any- 
thing more  mistaken  than  the  Roman  courage, 
when  they  killed  themselves  to  avoid  misfortunes 
that  were  infinitely  worse  than  death.  You  con- 
fess 'tis  an  age  since  our  story  began,  as  is  not  fit 
for  me  to  own.  Is  it  not  likely,  then,  that  if  my 
face  had  ever  been  good,  it  might  be  altered  since 
then;  or  is  it  as  unfit  for  me  to  own  the  change 
as  the  time  that  makes  it  ?  Be  it  as  you  please, 
I  am  not  enough  concerned  in't  to  dispute  it  with 
you ;  for,  trust  me,  if  you  would  not  have  my  face 
better,  I  am  satisfied  it  should  be  as  it  is ;  since  if 
ever  I  wished  it  otherwise,  'twas  for  your  sake. 
I  know  not  how  I  stumbled  upon  a  news-book 


Life  at  Ckicksands.  147 

this  week,  and,  for  want  of  something  else  to  do 
read  it ;  it  mentions  my  Lord  Lisle's  embassage 
again.  Is  there  any  such  thing  towards  ?  I  met 
with  somebody  else  too  in't  that  may  concern 
anybody  that  has  a  mind  to  marry ;  'tis  a  new 
form  for  it,  that,  sure,  will  fright  the  country  people 
extremely,  for  they  apprehend  nothing  like  going 
before  a  Justice  ;  they  say  no  other  marriage  shall 
stand  good  in  law.  In  conscience,  I  believe  the 
old  one  is  the  better;  and  for  my  part  I  am 
resolved  to  stay  till  that  comes  in  fashion  again. 

Can  your  father  have  so  perfectly  forgiven 
already  the  injury  I  did  him  (since  you  will  not 
allow  it  to  be  any  to  you),  in  hindering  you  of 
Mrs.  Chambers,  as  to  remember  me  with  kind- 
ness ?  'Tis  most  certain  that  I  am  obliged  to 
him,  and,  in  earnest,  if  I  could  hope  it  might  ever 
be  in  my  power  to  serve  him  I  would  promise 
something  for  myself.  But  is  it  not  true,  too,  that 
you  have  represented  me  to  him  rather  as  you 
imagine  me  than  as  I  am  ;  and  have  you  not  given 
him  an  expectation  that  I  shall  never  be  able  to 
satisfy  ?  If  you  have,  I  can  forgive  you,  because 
I  know  you  meant  well  in't ;  but  I  have  known 
some  women  that  have  commended  others  merely 
out  of  spite,  and  if  I  were  malicious  enough  to  envy 
anybody's  beauty,  I  would  cry  it  up  to  all  that 
had  not  seen  them ;  there's  no  such  way  to  make 
anybody  appear  less  handsome  than  they  are. 

You  must  not  forget  that  you  are  some  letters 
in  my  debt,  besides  the  answer  to  this.  If  there 
were  not  conveniences  of  sending,  I  should  per- 


148  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

secute  you  strangely.  And  yet  you  cannot  wonder 
at  it ;  the  constant  desire  I  have  to  hear  from  you, 
and  the  satisfaction  your  letters  give  me,  would 
oblige  one  that  has  less  time  to  write  often.  But 
yet  I  know  what  'tis  to  be  in  the  town.  I  could 
never  write  a  letter  from  thence  in  my  life  of 
above  a  dozen  lines ;  and  though  I  see  as  little 
company  as  anybody  that  comes  there,  yet  I 
always  met  with  something  or  other  that  kept  me 
idle.  Therefore  I  can  excuse  it,  though  you  do 
not  exactly  pay  all  that  you  owe,  upon  condition 
you  shall  tell  me  when  I  see  you  all  that  you 
should  have  writ  if  you  had  had  time,  and  all  that 
you  can  imagine  to  say  to  a  person  that  is 

Your  faithful  friend. 


Letter  31. — Dorothy  is  in  mourning  for  her  youngest 
brother,  Robert,  who  died  about  this  time.  As  she  does 
not  mention  his  death  to  Temple,  we  may  take  it  that 
he  was,  though  her  brother,  practically  a  stranger  to  her, 
living  away  from  Chicksands,  and  rarely  visiting  her. 

General  Monk's  brother,  to  whom  Dorothy  refers,  was 
Mr.  Nicholas  Monk,  vicar  of  Kelkhampton,  in  Cornwall. 
General  Monk's  misfortune  is  no  less  a  calamity  than 
his  marriage.  The  following  extract  from  Guizot's  Life 
of  Monk  will  fully  explain  the  allusion  :  "  The  return  of 
the  new  admiral  [Monk]  was  marked  by  a  domestic 
event  which  was  not  without  its  influence  on  his  public 
conduct  and  reputation.  Unrefined  tastes,  and  that 
need  of  repose  in  his  private  life  which  usually  accom- 
panies activity  in  public  affairs,  had  consigned  him  to 
the  dominion  of  a  woman  of  low  character,  destitute 
even  of  the  charms  which  seduce,  and  whose  manners 
did  not  belie  the  rumour  which  gave  her  for  extraction 


Life  at  Chicksands.  149 

a  market  stall,  or  even,  according  to  some,  a  much  less 
respectable  profession.  She  had  lived  for  some  time 
past  with  Monk,  and  united  to  the  influence  of  habit  an 
impetuosity  of  will  and  words  difficult  to  be  resisted  by 
the  tranquil  apathy  of  her  lover.  It  is  asserted  that  she 
had  managed,  as  long  since  as  1649,  to  force  him  to  a 
marriage ;  but  this  marriage  was  most  certainly  not 
declared  until  1653."  M.  Guizot  then  quotes  a  letter, 
dated  September  19,  1653,  announcing  the  news  of 
General  Monk's  marriage,  and  this  would  about  corre- 
spond with  the  presumed  date  of  Dorothy's  letter. 
Greenwich  Palace  was  probably  occupied  by  Monk  at 
this  time,  and  Dorothy  meant  to  say  that  Ann  Clarges 
would  be  as  much  at  home  in  Greenwich  Palace  as,  say, 
the  Lord  Protector's  wife  at  Whitehall. 

SIR, — It  was,  sure,  a  less  fault  in  me  to  make 
a  scruple  of  reading  your  letter  to  your  brother, 
which  in  all  likelihood  I  could  not  be  concerned 
in,  than  for  you  to  condemn  the  freedom  you 
take  of  giving  me  directions  in  a  thing  where  we 
are  equally  concerned.  Therefore,  if  I  forgive 
you  this,  you  may  justly  forgive  me  t'other ;  and 
upon  these  terms  we  are  friends  again,  are  we 
not  ?  No,  stay !  I  have  another  fault  to  chide 
you  for.  You  doubted  whether  you  had  not  writ 
too  much,  and  whether  I  could  have  the  patience 
to  read  it  or  not.  Why  do  you  dissemble  so 
abominably;  you  cannot  think  these  things  ?  How 
I  should  love  that  plain-heartedness  you  speak  of, 
if  you  would  use  it ;  nothing  is  civil  but  that 
amongst  friends.  Your  kind  sister  ought  to  chide 
you,  too,  for  not  writing  to  her,  unless  you  have 
been  with  her  to  excuse  it.  I  hope  you  have ; 


150  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

and  pray  take  some  time  to  make  her  one  visit 
from  me,  and  carry  my  humble  service  with  you, 
and  tell  her  that  'tis  not  my  fault  that  you  are  no 
better.  I  do  not  think  I  shall  see  the  town 
before  Michaelmas,  therefore  you  may  make  what 
sallies  you  please.  I  am  tied  here  to  expect  my 
brother  Peyton,  and  then  possibly  we  may  go  up 
together,  for  I  should  be  at  home  again  before 
the  term.  Then  I  may  show  you  my  niece  ;  and 
you  may  confess  that  I  am  a  kind  aunt  to  desire 
her  company,  since  the  disadvantage  of  our  being 
together  will  lie  wholly  upon  me.  But  I  must 
make  it  my  bargain,  that  if  I  come  you  will  not 
be  frighted  to  see  me;  you  think,  I'll  warrant, 
you  have  courage  enough  to  endure  a  worse 
sight.  You  may  be  deceived,  you  never  saw  me 
in  mourning  yet ;  nobody  that  has  will  e'er  desire 
to  do  it  again,  for  their  own  sakes  as  well  as  mine. 
Oh,  'tis  a  most  dismal  dress, — I  have  not  dared 
to  look  in  the  glass  since  I  wore  it ;  arid  certainly 
if  it  did  so  ill  with  other  people  as  it  does  with 
me,  it  would  never  be  worn. 

You  told  me  of  writing  to  your  father,  but  you 
did  not  say  whether  you  had  heard  from  him,  or 
how  he  did.  May  not  I  ask  it  ?  Is  it  possible 
that  he  saw  me  ?  Where  were  my  eyes  that  I 
did  not  see  him,  for  I  believe  I  should  have 
guessed  at  least  that  'twas  he  if  I  had  ?  They 
say  you  are  very  like  him ;  but  'tis  no  wonder 
neither  that  I  did  not  see  him,  for  I  saw  not  you 
when  I  met  you  there.  'Tis  a  place  I  look  upon 
nobody  in ;  and  it  was  reproached  to  me  by  a 


Life  at  Chicksands.  151 

kinsman,  but  a  little  before  you  came  to  me,  that 
he  had  followed  me  to  half  a  dozen  shops  to  see 
when  I  would  take  notice  of  him,  and  was  at  last 
going  away  with  a  belief  'twas  not  I,  because  I 
did  not  seem  to  know  him.  Other  people  make 
it  so  much  their  business  to  gape,  that  I'll  swear 
they  put  me  so  out  of  countenance  I  dare  not 
look  up  for  my  life. 

I  am  sorry  for  General  Monk's  misfortunes, 
because  you  say  he  is  your  friend ;  but  otherwise 
she  will  suit  well  enough  with  the  rest  of  the 
great  ladies  of  the  times,  and  become  Greenwich 
as  well  as  some  others  do  the  rest  of  the  King's 
houses.  If  I  am  not  mistaken,  that  Monk  has  a 
brother  lives  in  Cornwall ;  an  honest  gentleman, 
I  have  heard,  and  one  that  was  a  great  acquaint- 
ance of  a  brother  of  mine  who  was  killed  there 
during  the  war,  and  so  much  his  friend  that  upon 
his  death  he  put  himself  and  his  family  into 
mourning  for  him,  which  is  not  usual,  I  think, 
where  there  is  no  relation  of  kindred. 

I  will  take  order  that  rny  letters  shall  be  left 
with  Jones,  and  yours  called  for  there.  As  long 
as  your  last  was,  I  read  it  over  thrice  in  less  than 
an  hour,  though,  to  say  truth,  I  had  skipped  some 
on't  the  last  time.  I  could  not  read  my  own 
confession  so  often.  Love  is  a  terrible  word,  and 
I  should  blush  to  death  if  anything  but  a  letter 
accused  me  on't.  Pray  be  merciful,  and  let  it  run 
friendship  in  my  next  charge.  My  Lady  sends 
me  word  she  has  received  those  parts  of  Cyrus 
I  lent  you.  Here  is  another  for  you  which,  when 


152  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

you  have  read,  you  know  how  to  dispose.  There 
are  four  pretty  stories  in  it,  " L'Amant  Absente" 
" L'Amant  non  Aime1"  "  L'Amant  Jaloux"  et 
"L'Amant  dont  La  Maitresse  est  mort"  Tell 
me  which  you  have  most  compassion  for  when 
you  have  read  what  every  one  says  for  himself. 
Perhaps  you  will  not  think  it  so  easy  to  decide 
which  is  the  most  unhappy,  as  you  may  think  by 
the  titles  their  stories  bear.  Only  let  me  desire 
you  not  to  pity  the  jealous  one,  for  I  remember 
I  could  do  nothing  but  laugh  at  him  as  one  that 
sought  his  own  vexation.  This,  and  the  little 
journeys  (you  say)  you  are  to  make,  will  enter- 
tain you  till  I  come ;  which,  sure,  will  be  as  soon 
as  possible  I  can,  since  'tis  equally  desired  by  you 
and  your  faithful. 

Letter  32.— Things  being  more  settled  in  that  part  of 
the  world,  Sir  John  Temple  is  returning  to  Ireland, 
where  he  intends  taking  his  seat  as  Master  of  the  Rolls 
once  again.  Temple  joins  his  father  soon  after  this,  and 
stays  in  Ireland  a  few  months. 

Lady  Ormond  was  the  wife  of  the  first  Duke  of 
Ormond.  She  had  obtained  her  pass  to  go  over  to 
Ireland  on  August  24th,  1653.  The  Ormonds  had 
indeed  been  in  great  straits  for  want  of  money,  and  in 
August  1652  Lady  Ormond  had  come  over  from  Caen, 
where  they  were  then  living,  to  endeavour  to  claim 
Cromwell's  promise  of  reserving  to  her  that  portion  of 
their  estate  which  had  been  her  inheritance.  After 
great  delays  she  obtained  £500,  and  a  grant  of 
£2000  per  annum  out  of  their  Irish  lands  "  lying  most 
conveniently  to  Dunmore  House."  It  must  have 
been  this  matter  that  Dorothy  had  heard  of  when 


Life  at  Chicksands.  153 

she  questions  "  whether  she  will  get  it  when  she  comes 
there." 

Francis  Annesley,  Lord  Valentia,  belonged  to  an 
ancient  Nottinghamshire  family,  though  he  himself  was 
born  in  Newport,  Buckinghamshire.  Of  his  daughter's 
marriage  I  can  find  nothing.  Lord  Valentia  was  at  this 
time  Secretary  of  State  at  Dublin. 

Sir  Justinian  has  at  length  found  a  second  wife.  Her 
name  is  Vere,  and  she  is  the  daughter  of  Lord  Leigh 
of  Stoneleigh.  Thus  do  Dorothy's  suitors,  one  by  one, 
recover  and  cease  to  lament  her  obduracy.  When  she 
declares  that  she  would  rather  have  chosen  a  chain  to 
lead  her  apes  in  than  marry  Sir  Justinian,  she  refers  to 
an  old  superstition  as  to  the  ultimate  fate  of  spinsters — 

Women,  dying  maids,  lead  apes  in  hell, 

runs  the  verse  of  an  old  play,  and  that  is  the  whole 
superstition,  the  origin  of  which  seems  somewhat  inex- 
plicable. -The  phrase  is  thrice  used  by  Shakespeare, 
and  constantly  occurs  in  the  old  burlesques  and 
comedies  ;  in  one  instance,  in  a  comedy  entitled 
"Love's  Convert"  (1651),  it  is  altered  to  "lead  an  ape 
in  heaven?  Many  will  remember  the  fate  of  "The 
young  Mary  Anne "  in  the  famous  Ingoldsby  legend, 
"  Bloudie  Jacke  :  "-— 

So  they  say  she  is  now  leading  apes — 

Bloudie  Jack, 
And  mends  bachelors'  smallclothes  below. 

No  learned  editor  that  I  am  acquainted  with  has 
been  able  to  suggest  an  explanation  of  this  curious 
expression. 

SIR, — All  my  quarrels  to  you  are  kind  ones,  for, 
sure,  'tis  alike  impossible  for  me  to  be  angry  as 
for  you  to  give  me  the  occasion ;  therefore,  when 
I  chide  (unless  it  be  that  you  are  not  careful 


154          Letters  from  Dorothy  Osdome. 

enough  of  yourself,  and  hazard  too  much  a  health 
that  I  am  more  concerned  in  than  my  own),  you 
need  not  study  much  for  excuses,  I  can  easily 
forgive  you  anything  but  want  of  kindness.  The 
judgment  you  have  made  of  the  four  lovers  I 
recommended  to  you  does  so  perfectly  agree  with 
what  I  think  of  them,  that  I  hope  it  will  not  alter 
when  you  have  read  their  stories.  U  Amant  Absent 
has  (in  my  opinion)  a  mistress  so  much  beyond 
any  of  the  rest,  that  to  be  in  danger  of  losing  her 
is  more  than  to  have  lost  the  others ;  DAmant 
non  Aime1  was  an  ass,  under  favour  (notwithstand- 
the  Princesse  Cleobulines  letter) ;  his  mistress  had 
caprices  that  would  have  suited  better  with  our 
Amant  Jaloux  than  with  anybody  else ;  and  the 
Prince  Artibie  was  much  to  blame  that  he  out- 
lived his  belle  Leontine.  But  if  you  have  met 
with  the  beginning  of  the  story  of  Amestris  and 
Aglatides,  you  will  find  the  rest  of  it  in  this  part 
I  send  you  now;  and  'tis,  to  me,  one  of  the 
prettiest  I  have  read,  and  the  most  natural. 
They  say  the  gentleman  that  writes  this  romance 
has  a  sister  that  lives  with  him,  a  maid,  and  she 
furnishes  him  with  all  the  little  stories  that  come 
between,  so  that  he  only  contrives  the  main 
design ;  and  when  he  wants  something  to  en- 
tertain his  company  withal,  he  calls  to  her  for 
it.  She  has  an  excellent  fancy,  sure,  and  a  great 
wit ;  but,  I  am  sorry  to  tell  it  you,  they  say  'tis 
the  most  ill-favoured  creature  that  ever  was  born. 
And  'tis  often  so  ;  how  seldom  do  we  see  a  person 
excellent  in  anything  but  they  have  some  great 


Life  at  Chicksands.  155 

defect  with  it  that  pulls  them  low  enough  to  make 
them  equal  with  other  people  ;  and  there  is  justice 
in't.  Those  that  have  fortunes  have  nothing 
else,  and  those  that  want  it  deserve  to  have  it. 
That's  but  small  comfort,  though,  you'll  say ;  'tis 
confessed,  but  there  is  no  such  thing  as  perfect 
happiness  in  this  world,  those  that  have  come 
the  nearest  it  had  many  things  to  wish ;  and, 
— bless  me,  whither  am  I  going  ?  Sure,  'tis  the 
death's  head  I  see  stand  before  me  puts  me  into 
this  grave  discourse  (pray  do  not  think  I  meant 
that  for  a  conceit  neither) ;  how  idly  have  I  spent 
two  sides  of  my  paper,  and  am  afraid,  besides, 
I  shall  not  have  time  to  write  two  more.  There- 
fore I'll  make  haste  to  tell  you  that  my  friendship 
for  you  makes  me  concerned  in  all  your  relations ; 
that  I  have  a  great  respect  for  Sir  John,  merely 
as  he  is  your  father,  and  that  'tis  much  increased 
by  his  kindness  to  you ;  that  he  has  all  my 
prayers  and  wishes  for  his  safety ;  and  that  you 
will  oblige  me  in  letting  me  know  when  you  hear 
any  good  news  from  him.  He  has  met  with  a 
great  deal  of  good  company,  I  believe.  My  Lady 
Ormond,  I  am  told,  is  waiting  for  a  passage,  and 
divers  others  ;  but  this  wind  (if  I  am  not  mis- 
taken) is  not  good  for  them.  In  earnest,  'tis  a 
most  sad  thing  that  a  person  of  her  quality  should 
be  reduced  to  such  a  fortune  as  she  has  lived 
upon  these  late  years,  and  that  she  should  lose 
that  which  she  brought,  as  well  as  that  which 
was  her  husband's.  Yet,  I  hear,  she  has  now  got 
some  of  her  own  land  in  Ireland  granted  her;  but 


156  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

whether  she  will  get  it  when  she  comes  there  is,  I 
think,  a  question. 

We  have  a  lady  new  come  into  this  country 
that  I  pity,  too,  extremely.  She  is  one  of  my 
Lord  of  Valentia's  daughters,  and  has  married 
an  old  fellow  that  is  some  threescore  and  ten, 
who  has  a  house  that  is  fitter  for  the  hogs  than 
for  her,  and  a  fortune  that  will  not  at  all  recom- 
pense the  least  of  these  inconveniences.  Ah  !  'tis 
most  certain  I  should  have  chosen  a  handsome 
chain  to  lead  my  apes  in  before  such  a  husband ; 
but  marrying  and  hanging  go  by  destiny,  they 
say.  It  was  not  mine,  it  seems,  to  have  an 
emperor;  the  spiteful  man,  merely  to  vex  me, 
has  gone  and  married  my  countrywoman,  my 
Lord  Lee's  daughter.  What  a  multitude  of 
willow  garlands  I  shall  weave  before  I  die;  I 
think  I  had  best  make  them  into  faggots  this 
cold  weather,  the  flame  they  would  make  in  a 
chimney  would  be  of  more  use  to  me  than  that 
which  was  in  the  hearts  of  all  those  that  gave 
them  me,  and  would  last  as  long.  I  did  not 
think  I  should  have  got  thus  far.  I  have  been 
so  persecuted  with  visits  all  this  week  I  have  had 
no  time  to  despatch  anything  of  business,  so  that 
now  I  have  done  this  I  have  forty  letters  more 
to  write ;  how  much  rather  would  I  have  them 
all  to  you  than  to  anybody  else ;  or,  rather,  how 
much  better  would  it  be  if  there  needed  none  to 
you,  and  that  I  could  tell  you  without  writing 
how  much  I  am 

Yours. 


Life  at  Chicksands.  157 

Letter  33. — Sir  Thomas  Peyton,  we  must  remember, 
had  married  Dorothy's  eldest  sister;  she  died  many 
years  ago,  and  Sir  Thomas  married  again,  in  1648,  one 
Dame  Cicely  Swan,  a  widow,  whose  character  Dorothy 
gives  us. 

Lord  Monmouth  was  the  eldest  son  of  the  Earl  of 
Monmouth,  and  was  born  in  1596.  He  was  educated 
at  Exeter  College,  Oxford.  His  literary  work  was,  at 
least,  copious,  and  included  some  historical  writing,  as 
well  as  the  translations  mentioned  by  Dorothy.  He 
published,  among  other  things,  An  Historical  Relation 
of  the  United  Provinces,  a  History  of  the  Wars  in 
Flanders,  and  a  History  of  Venice. 

Sir  John  Suckling,  in  the  following  doggerel,  hails  our 
noble  author  with  a  flunkey's  enthusiasm, — 

It  is  so  rare  and  new  a  thing  to  see 
Aught  that  belongs  to  young  nobility 
In  print,  but  their  own  clothes,  that  we  must  praise 
You,  as  we  would  do  those  first  show  the  ways 
To  arts  or  to  new  worlds. 

In  such  strain  writes  the  author  of  Why  so  pale  and 
wan,  fond  lover  ?  and  both  the  circumstance  and  the 
doggerel  should  be  very  instructive  to  the  snobologist. 

The  literary  work  of  Lord  Broghill  is  not  unknown  to 
fame,  and  Mr.  Waller's  verse  is  still  read  by  us ;  but  I 
have  never  seen  a  history  of  the  Civil  Wars  from  Mr. 
Waller's  pen,  and  cannot  find  that  he  ever  published  one. 

Prazimene  and  Polexander  are  two  romances  trans- 
lated from  the  French,  —  the  former,  a  neat  little 
duodecimo ;  the  latter,  a  huge  folio  of  more  than  three 
hundred  and  fifty  closely-printed  pages.  The  title-page 
of  Prazimene,  a  very  good  example  of  its  kind,  runs 
as  follows  : — "  Two  delightful  Novels,  or  the  Unlucky 
Fair  One ;  being  the  Amours  of  Milistrate  and  Prazi- 
mene, Illustrated  with  variety  of  Chance  and  Fortune. 
Translated  from  the  French  by  a  Person  of  Quality. 
London.  Sold  by  Eben  Tracy,  at  the  Three  Bibles 


158  Letters  from  Dorothy  Os borne. 

on  London  Bridge."  Polexandcr  was  "done  into 
English  by  William  Browne,  Gent,"  for  the  benefit 
and  behoof  of  the  Earl  of  Pembroke. 

William  Fiennes,  Lord  Say  and  Sele,  was  one  of  the 
chiefs  of  the  Independent  party,  a  Republican,  and  one 
of  the  first  to  bear  arms  against  the  King.  He  had,  for 
that  day,  extravagant  notions  of  civil  liberty,  and  on  the 
disappointment  of  his  hopes,  he  appears  to  have  retired 
to  the  Isle  of  Lundy,  on  the  coast  of  Devon,  and  con- 
tinued a  voluntary  prisoner  there  until  Cromwell's  death. 
After  the  Restoration  he  was  made  Lord  Chamberlain 
of  the  Household,  and  Lord  Privy  Seal.  He  published 
some  political  tracts,  none  of  which  are  now  in  existence  ; 
and  Anthony  Wood  mentions  having  seen  other  things 
of  his,  among  which,  maybe,  was  the  romance  that 
Dorothy  had  heard  of,  but  which  is  lost  to  us. 

SIR, — Pray,  let  not  the  apprehension  that  others 
say  fine  things  to  me  make  your  letters  at  all  the 
shorter ;  for,  if  it  were  so,  I  should  not  think  they 
did,  and  so  long  you  are  safe.  My  brother 
Peyton  does,  indeed,  sometimes  send  me  letters 
that  may  be  excellent  for  aught  I  know,  and  the 
more  likely  because  I  do  not  understand  them ; 
but  I  may  say  to  you  (as  to  a  friend)  I  do  not 
like  them,  and  have  wondered  that  my  sister 
(who,  I  may  tell  you  too,  and  you  will  not  think 
it  vanity  in  me,  had  a  great  deal  of  wit,  and 
was  thought  to  write  as  well  as  most  women  in 
England)  never  persuaded  him  to  alter  his  style, 
and  make  it  a  little  more  intelligible.  He  is  an 
honest  gentleman,  in  earnest,  has  understanding 
enough,  and  was  an  excellent  husband  to  two 
very  different  wives,  as  two  good  ones  could  be. 


Life  at  Chicksands.  159 

My  sister  was  a  melancholy,  retired  woman,  and, 
besides  the  company  of  her  husband  and  her 
books,  never  sought  any,  but  could  have  spent  a 
life  much  longer  than  hers  was  in  looking  to  her 
house  and  her  children.  This  lady  is  of  a  free, 
jolly  humour,  loves  cards  and  company,  and  is 
never  more  pleased  than  when  she  sees  a  great 
many  others  that  are  so  too.  Now,  with  both 
these  he  so  perfectly  complied  that  'tis  hard  to 
judge  which  humour  he  is  more  inclined  to  in 
himself;  perhaps  to  neither,  which  makes  it  so 
much  the  more  strange.  His  kindness  to  his 
first  wife  may  give  him  an  esteem  for  her  sister ; 
but  he  was  too  much  smitten  with  this  lady  to 
think  of  marrying  anybody  else,  and,  seriously,  I 
could  not  blame  him,  for  she  had,  and  has  yet, 
great  loveliness  in  her ;  she  was  very  handsome, 
and  is  very  good  (one  may  read  it  in  her  face  at 
first  sight).  A  woman  that  is  hugely  civil  to  all 
people,  and  takes  as  generally  as  anybody  that 
I  know,  but  not  more  than  my  cousin  Molle's 
letters  do,  but  which,  yet,  you  do  not  like,  you 
say,  nor  I  neither,  I'll  swear;  and  if  it  be 
ignorance  in  us  both  we'll  forgive  it  one  another. 
In  my  opinion  these  great  scholars  are  not  the 
best  writers  (of  letters,  I  mean) ;  of  books,  perhaps 
they  are.  I  never  had,  I  think,  but  one  letter 
from  Sir  Justinian,  but  'twas  worth  twenty  of 
anybody's  else  to  make  me  sport.  It  was  the 
most  sublime  nonsense  that  in  my  life  I  ever 
read ;  and  yet,  I  believe,  he  descended  as  low  as 
he  could  to  come  near  my  weak  understanding. 


160  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

'Twill  be  no  compliment  after  this  to  say  I  like 
your  letters  in  themselves ;  not  as  they  come  from 
one  that  is  not  indifferent  ,to  me,  but,  seriously,  I 
do.  All  letters,  methinks,  should  be  free  and 
easy  as  one's  discourse ;  not  studied  as  an  oration, 
nor  made  up  of  hard  words  like  a  charm.  'Tis 
an  admirable  thing  to  see  how  some  people  will 
labour  to  find  out  terms  that  may  obscure  a  plain 
sense.  Like  a  gentleman  I  know,  who  would 
never  say  "  the  weather  grew  cold,"  but  that 
"  winter  began  to  salute  us."  I  have  no  patience 
for  such  coxcombs,  and  cannot  blame  an  old  uncle 
of  mine  that  threw  the  standish  at  his  man's  head 
because  he  writ  a  letter  for  him  where,  instead  of 
saying  (as  his  master  bid  him),  "that  he  would 
have  writ  himself,  but  he  had  the  gout  in  his 
hand,"  he  said,  "  that  the  gout  in  his  hand  would 
not  permit  him  to  put  pen  to  paper."  The  fellow 
thought  he  had  mended  it  mightily,  and  that  putting 
pen  to  paper  was  much  better  than  plain  writing. 

I  have  no  patience  neither  for  these  trans- 
lations of  romances.  I  met  with  Polexander  and 
L'illustre  Bassa  both  so  disguised  that  I,  who  am 
their  old  acquaintance,  hardly  know  them;  besides 
that,  they  were  still  so  much  French  in  words  and 
phrases  that  'twas  impossible  for  one  that  under- 
stands not  French  to  make  anything  of  them. 
If  poor  Prazimene  be  in  the  same  dress,  I  would 
not  see  her  for  the  world.  She  has  suffered 
enough  besides.  I  never  saw  but  four  tomes  of 
her,  and  was  told  the  gentleman  that  writ  her 
story  died  when  those  were  finished.  I  was  very 


Life  at  Chick  sands.  161 

sorry  for  it,  I  remember,  for  I  liked  so  far  as  I 
had  seen  of  it  extremely.  Is  it  not  my  good 
Lord  of  Monmouth,  or  some  such  honourable 
personage,  that  presents  her  to  the  English 
ladies  ?  I  have  heard  many  people  wonder  how 
he  spends  his  estate.  I  believe  he  undoes  him- 
self with  printing  his  translations.  Nobody  else 
will  undergo  the  charge,  because  they  never  hope 
to  sell  enough  of  them  to  pay  themselves  withal. 
I  was  looking  t'other  day  in  a  book  of  his  where 
he  translates  Pipero  as  piper,  and  twenty  words 
more  that  are  as  false  as  this. 

My  Lord  Broghill,  sure,  will  give  us  something 
worth  the  reading.  My  Lord  Saye,  I  am  told, 
has  writ  a  romance  since  his  retirement  in  the 
Isle  of  Lundy,  and  Mr.  Waller,  they  say,  is 
making  one  of  our  wars,  which,  if  he  does  not 
mingle  with  a  great  deal  of  pleasing  fiction,  cannot 
be  very  diverting,  sure,  the  subject  is  so  sad. 

But  all  this  is  nothing  to  my  coming  to  town, 
you'll  say.  'Tis  confest;  and  that  I  was  willing 
as  long  as  I  could  to  avoid  saying  anything  when 
I  had  nothing  to  say  worth  your  knowing.  I  am 
still  obliged  to  wait  my  brother  Peyton  and  his 
lady  coming.  I  had  a  letter  from  him  this  week, 
which  I  will  send  you,  that  you  may  see  what 
hopes  he  gives.  As  little  room  as  I  have  left, 
too,  I  must  tell  you  what  a  present  I  had  made 
me  to-day.  Two  of  the  finest  young  Irish  grey- 
hounds that  ere  I  saw ;  a  gentleman  that  serves 
the  General  sent  them  me.  They  are  newly 
come  over,  and  sent  for  by  Henry  Cromwell,  he 

L 


1 62  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osbornc. 

tells  me,  but  not  how  he  got  them  for  me. 
However,  I  am  glad  I  have  them,  and  much  the 
more  becauses  it  dispenses  with  a  very  unfit 
employment  that  your  father,  out  of  his  kindness 
to  you  and  his  civility  to  me,  was  content  to  take 
upon  him. 

Letter  34. 

SIR, — Jane  was  so  unlucky  as  to  come  out  of 
town  before  your  return,  but  she  tells  me  she  left 
my  letter  with  Nan  Stacy  for  you.  I  was  in  hope 
she  would  have  brought  me  one  from  you ;  and 
because  she  did  not  I  was  resolv'd  to  punish  her, 
and  kept  her  up  till  one  o'clock  telling  me  all  her 
stories.  Sure,  if  there  be  any  truth  in  the  old 
observation,  your  cheeks  glowed  notably ;  and  'tis 
most  certain  that  if  I  were  with  you,  I  should 
chide  notably.  What  do  you  mean  to  be  so  melan- 
choly ?  By  her  report  your  humour  is  grown 
insupportable.  I  can  allow  it  not  to  be  altogether 
what  she  says,  and  yet  it  may  be  very  ill  too ;  but 
if  you  loved  me  you  would  not  give  yourself  over 
to  that  which  will  infallibly  kill  you,  if  it  continue. 
I  know  too  well  that  our  fortunes  have  given  us 
occasion  enough  to  complain  and  to  be  weary  of 
her  tyranny  ;  but,  alas  !  would  it  be  better  if  I  had 
lost  you  or  you  me  ;  unless  we  were  sure  to  die 
both  together,  'twould  but  increase  our  misery, 
and  add  to  that  which  is  more  already  than  we 
can  well  tell  how  to  bear.  You  are  more  cruel 
than  she  regarding  a  life  that's  dearer  to  me  than 
that  of  the  whole  world  besides,  and  which  makes 


Life  at  Ckicksands.  163 

all  the  happiness  I  have  or  ever  shall  be  capable 
of.  Therefore,  by  all  our  friendship  I  conjure 
you  and,  by  the  power  you  have  given  me,  com- 
mand you,  to  preserve  yourself  with  the  same 
care  that  you  would  have  me  live.  'Tis  all  the 
obedience  I  require  of  you,  and  will  be  the 
greatest  testimony  you  can  give  me  of  your  faith. 
When  you  have  promised  me  this,  'tis  not  im- 
possible that  I  may  promise  you  shall  see  •  me 
shortly  ;  though  my  brother  Peyton  (who  says  he 
will  come  down  to  fetch  his  daughter)  hinders  me 
from  making  the  journey  in  compliment  to  her. 
Yet  I  shall  perhaps  find  business  enough  to  carry 
me  up  to  town.  'Tis  all  the  service  I  expect  from 
two  girls  whose  friends  have  given  me  leave  to 
provide  for,  that  some  order  I  must  take  for  the 
disposal  of  them  may  serve  for  my  pretence  to 
see  you  ;  but  then  I  must  find  you  pleased  and  in 
good  humour,  merry  as  you  were  wont  to  be  when 
we  first  met,  if  you  will  not  have  me  show  that 
I  am  nothing  akin  to  my  cousin  Osborne's  lady. 

But  what  an  age  'tis  since  we  first  met,  and  how 
great  a  change  it  has  wrought  in  both  of  us  ;  if 
there  had  been  as  great  a  one  in  my  face,  it  could 
be  either  very  handsome  or  very  ugly.  For 
God's  sake,  when  we  meet,  let  us  design  one  day 
to  remember  old  stories  in,  to  ask  one  another  by 
what  degrees  our  friendship  grew  to  this  height 
'tis  at.  In  earnest,  I  am  lost  sometimes  with 
thinking  on't ;  and  though  I  can  never  repent  the 
share  you  have  in  my  heart,  I  know  not  whether 
I  gave  it  you  willingly  or  not  at  first.  No,  to 


164  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

speak  ingenuously,  I  think  you  got  an  interest 
there  a  good  while  before  I  thought  you  had  any, 
and  it  grew  so  insensibly,  and  yet  so  fast,  that  all 
the  traverses  it  has  met  with  since  has  served 
rather  to  discover  it  to  me  than  at  all  to  hinder 
it.  By  this  confession  you  will  see  I  am  past  all 
disguise  with  you,  and  that  you  have  reason  to  be 
satisfied  with  knowing  as  much  of  my  heart  as  I 
do  myself.  Will  the  kindness  of  this  letter  excuse 
the  shortness  on't  ?  For  I  have  twenty  more,  I 
think,  to  write,  and  the  hopes  I  had  of  receiving 
one  from  you  last  night  kept  me  from  writing  this 
when  I  had  more  time ;  or  if  all  this  will  not 
satisfy,  make  your  own  conditions,  so  you  do  not 
return  it  me  by  the  shortness  of  yours.  Your 
servant  kisses  your  hands,  and  I  am 

Your  faithful. 

Letter  35. — This  is  written  on  the  back  of  a  letter 
of  Sir  Thomas  Peyton  to  Dorothy,  and  is  probably 
a  postscript  to  Letter  34.  Sir  Thomas's  letter  is  a  good 
example  of  the  stilted  letter -writing  in  vogue  at  that 
time,  which  Dorothy  tells  us  was  so  much  admired. 
The  affairs  that  are  troubling  him  are  legal  matters  in 
connection  with  his  brother-in-law  Henry  Oxenden's 
estate.  There  is  a  multitude  of  letters  in  the  MSS.  in 
the  British  Museum  referring  to  this  business  ;  but  we 
are  not  greatly  concerned  with  Oxenden's  financial 
difficulties.  Sir  Edward  Hales  was  a  gentleman  of  noble 
family  in  Kent  There  is  one  of  the  same  name  who  in 
1688  declares  himself  openly  to  be  a  Papist,  and  is  tried 
under  the  Test  Act.  He  is  concerned  in  the  same  year  in 
the  escape  of  King  James,  providing  him  with  a  fishing- 
boat  to  carry  him  into  France.  This  is  in  all  probability 


Life  at  Chicksands.  165 

the  Sir  Edward  Hales  referred  to  by  Sir  Thomas  Peyton, 
unless  it  be  a  son  of  the  same  name.    Here  is  the  letter : — 

"  GOOD  SISTER, — I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  the 
loss  of  our  good  brother,  whose  short  time  gives 
us  a  sad  example  of  our  frail  condition.  But  I 
will  not  say  the  loss,  knowing  whom  I  write  to, 
whose  religion  and  wisdom  is  a  present  stay  to 
support  in  all  worldly  accidents. 

"  Tis  long  since  we  resolved  to  have  given  you 
a  visit,  and  have  relieved  you  of  my  daughter. 
But  I  have  had  the  following  of  a  most  laborious 
affair,  which  hath  cost  me  the  travelling,  though 
in  our  own  country  style,  fifty  .  .  .  ;  and  I  have 
been  less  at  home  than  elsewhere  ever  since  I 
came  from  London  ;  which  hath  vext  me  the  more 
in  regard  I  have  been  detained  from  the  desire  I 
had  of  being  with  you  before  this  time.  Such 
entertainment,  however,  must  all  those  have  that 
have  to  do  with  such  a  purse-proud  and  wilful  per- 
son as  Sir  Edward  Hales.  This  next  week  being 
Michaelmas  week,  we  shall  end  all  and  I  be  at 
liberty,  I  hope,  to  consider  my  own  contentments. 
In  the  meantime  I  know  not  what  excuses  to 
make  for  the  trouble  I  have  put  you  to  already, 
of  which  I  grow  to  be  ashamed ;  and  I  should 
much  more  be  so  if  I  did  not  know  you  to  be  as 
good  as  you  are  fair.  In  both  which  regards  I 
have  a  great  honour  to  be  esteemed, 
"  My  good  sister, 

"Your  faithful  brother  and  servant, 
"  THOMAS  PEYTON. 

"KNOWLTON,  Sept.  22,  1653." 


1 66  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

On  tJie  other  side  of  Sir  T.  Peytons  Letter. 

NOTHING  that  is  paper  can  'scape  me  when  1 
have  time  to  write,  and  'tis  to  you.  But  that  I 
am  not  willing  to  excite  your  envy,  I  would  tell 
you  how  many  letters  I  have  despatched  since  I 
ended  yours  ;  and  if  I  could  show  them  you  'twould 
be  a  certain  cure  for  it,  for  they  are  all  very  short 
ones,  and  most  of  them  merely  compliments, 
which  I  am  sure  you  care  not  for. 

I  had  forgot  in  my  other  to  tell  you  what  Jane 
requires  for  the  satisfaction  of  what  you  confess 
you  owe  her.  You  must  promise  her  to  be  merry, 
and  not  to  take  cold  when  you  are  at  the  tennis 
court,  for  there  she  hears  you  are  found. 

Because  you  mention  my  Lord  Broghill  and 
his  wit,  I  have  sent  you  some  of  his  verses. 
My  brother  urged  them  against  me  one  day  in 
a  dispute,  where  he  would  needs  make  me  confess 
that  no  passion  could  be  long  lived,  and  that  such 
as  were  most  in  love  forgot  that  ever  they  had 
been  so  within  a  twelvemonth  after  they  \vere 
married  ;  and,  in  earnest,  the  want  of  examples  to 
bring  for  the  contrary  puzzled  me  a  little,  so  that 
I  was  fain  to  bring  out  those  pitiful  verses  of  my 
Lord  Biron  to  his  wife,  which  was  so  poor  an  argu- 
ment that  I  was  e'en  ashamed  on't  myself,  and 
he  quickly  laughed  me  out  of  countenance  with 
saying  they  were  just  such  as  a  married  man's 
flame  would  produce  and  a  wife  inspire.  I  send 
you  a  love  letter,  too;  which,  simple  as  you  see,  it 
was  sent  me  in  very  good  earnest,  and  by  a  person 


Life  at  Ckicksands.  167 

of  quality,  as  I  was  told.     If  you  read  it  when  you 
go  to  bed,  'twill  certainly  make  your  sleep  approved. 

I  am  yours. 


Letter  36. — My  Lady  Carlisle  was,  as  Dorothy  says, 
"an  extraordinary  person."  She  was  the  daughter  of 
Henry  Percy,  Earl  of  Northumberland,  and  at  the  age 
of  eighteen,  against  her  father's  will  and  under  somewhat 
romantic  circumstances,  married  James  Hay,  Earl  of 
Carlisle.  Her  sister  married  the  Earl  of  Leicester,  and 
she  is  therefore  aunt  to  Lady  Sunderland  and  Algernon 
Sydney.  She  was  a  favourite  attendant  of  Queen 
Henrietta,  and  there  are  evil  rumours  connecting  her 
name  with  that  of  Straffbrd.  On  Strafford's  death,  it 
is  asserted  that  she  transferred  her  affections  to  Pym, 
to  whom  she  is  said  to  have  betrayed  the  secrets  of  the 
Court.  There  seems  little  doubt  that  it  was  she  who 
gave  notice  to  Pym  of  the  King's  coming  to  the  House 
to  seize  the  five  members.  In  1648  she  appears,  how- 
ever, to  have  assisted  the  Royalists  with  money  for  the 
purpose  of  raising  a  fleet  to  attack  England,  and  at  the 
Restoration  she  was  received  at  Court,  and  employed 
herself  in  intriguing  for  the  return  of  Queen  Henrietta 
to  England,  which  was  opposed  at  the  time  by  Clarendon 
and  others.  Soon  after  this,  and  in  the  year  of  the 
Restoration,  she  died  suddenly.  Poets  of  all  grades, 
from  Waller  downwards,  have  sung  of  her  beauty,  viva- 
city, and  wit ;  and  Sir  Toby  Matthew  speaks  of  her  as 
"  too  lofty  and  dignified  to  be  capable  of  friendship,  and 
having  too  great  a  heart  to  be  susceptible  of  love," — 
an  extravagance  of  compliment  hardly  satisfactory  in 
this  plain  age. 

My  Lord  Paget,  at  whose  house  at  Marlow  Mr.  Lely 
was  staying,  was  a  prominent  loyalist  both  in  camp  and 
council  chamber.  He  married  Frances,  the  eldest 
daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Holland,  my  Lady  Diana's  sister. 


i68  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

Whether  or  not  Dorothy  really  assisted  young 
Sir  Harry  Yelverton  in  his  suit  for  the  hand  of  fair 
Lady  Ruthin  we  cannot  say,  but  they  were  undoubtedly 
married.  Sir  Harry  Yelverton  seems  to  have  been  a 
man  of  superior  accomplishments  and  serious  learning. 
He  was  at  this  time  twenty  years  of  age,  and  had  been 
educated  at  St.  Paul's  School,  London,  and  afterwards 
at  Wadham  College,  Oxford,  under  the  tutorship  of 
Dr.  Wilkins,  Cromwell's  brother-in-law,  a  learned  and 
philosophical  mathematician.  He  was  admitted  gentle- 
man commoner  in  1650,  and  it  is  said  "made  great 
proficiency  in  several  branches  of  learning,  being  as 
exact  a  Latin  and  Grecian  as  any  in  the  university  of 
his  age  or  time."  He  succeeded  to  his  father's  title 
soon  after  coming  of  age,  and  took  a  leading  part  in  the 
politics  of  the  day,  becoming  Knight  of  the  Shire  of 
Northampton  in  the  Restoration  Parliament.  He  was 
a  high  Tory,  and  a  great  defender  of  the  Church  and  its 
ejected  ministers,  one  of  whom,  Dr.  Thomas  Morton, 
the  learned  theologian,  Bishop  of  Coventry  and  Lichfield, 
died  in  his  house  in  1659.  He  wrote  a  discourse  on  the 
"  Truth  and  Reasonableness  of  the  Religion  delivered 
by  Jesus  Christ,"  a  Preface  to  Dr.  Morton's  work  on 
Episcopacy,  and  a  vindication  of  the  Church  of  England 
against  the  attacks  of  the  famous  Edward  Bagshawe. 

In  this  letter  Dorothy  describes  some  husbands  whom 
she  could  not  marry.  See  what  she  expects  in  a  lover  ! 
Have  we  not  here  some  local  squires  hit  off  to  the  life  ? 
Could  George  Eliot  herself  have  done  more  for  us  in 
like  space  ? 

SIR, — Why  are  you  so  sullen,  and  why  am  I 
the  cause  ?  Can  you  believe  that  I  do  willingly 
defer  my  journey  ?  I  know  you  do  not.  Why, 
then,  should  my  absence  now  be  less  supportable 
to  you  than  heretofore  ?  Nay,  it  shall  not  be 


L  ife  at  Chicksands.  1 69 

long  (if  I  can  help  it),  and  I  shall  break  through 
all  inconveniences  rather  than  deny  you  anything 
that  lies  in  my  power  to  grant.  But  by  your  own 
rules,  then,  may  I  not  expect  the  same  from  you  ? 
Is  it  possible  that  all  I  have  said  cannot  oblige 
you  to  a  care  of  yourself?  What  a  pleasant 
distinction  you  make  when  you  say  that  'tis  not 
melancholy  makes  you  do  these  things,  but  a 
careless  forgetfulness.  Did  ever  anybody  forget 
themselves  to  that  degree  that  was  not  melan- 
choly in  extremity  ?  Good  God !  how  you  are 
altered  ;  and  what  is  it  that  has  done  it  ?  I  have 
known  you  when  of  all  the  things  in  the  world 
you  would  not  have  been  taken  for  a  discontent ; 
you  were,  as  I  thought,  perfectly  pleased  with 
your  condition ;  what  has  made  it  so  much  worse 
since  ?  I  know  nothing  you  have  lost,  and  am 
sure  you  have  gained  a  friend  that  is  capable  of 
the  highest  degree  of  friendship  you  can  pro- 
pound, that  has  already  given  an  entire  heart  for 
that  which  she  received,  and  'tis  no  more  in  her 
will  than  in  her  power  ever  to  recall  it  or  divide 
it ;  if  this  be  not  enough  to  satisfy  you,  tell  me 
what  I  can  do  more  ? 

There  are  a  great  many  ingredients  must  go 
to  the  making  me  happy  in  a  husband.  First,  as 
my  cousin  Franklin  says,  our  humours  must 
agree ;  and  to  do  that  he  must  have  that  kind  of 
breeding  that  I  have  had,  and  used  that  kind  of 
company.  That  is,  he  must  not  be  so  much  a 
country  gentleman  as  to  understand  nothing  but 
hawks  and  dogs,  and  be  fonder  of  either  than  his 


170  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osbornc. 

wife ;  nor  of  the  next  sort  of  them  whose  aim 
reaches  no  further  than  to  be  Justice  of  the  Peace, 
and  once  in  his  life  High  Sheriff,  who  reads  no 
book  but  statutes,  and  studies  nothing  but  how 
to  make  a  speech  interlarded  with  Latin  that  may 
amaze  his  disagreeing  poor  neighbours,  and  fright 
them  rather  than  persuade  them  into  quietness. 
He  must  not  be  a  thing  that  began  the  world  in 
a  free  school,  was  sent  from  thence  to  the  univer- 
sity, and  is  at  his  furthest  when  he  reaches  the 
Inns  of  Court,  has  no  acquaintance  but  those  of 
his  form  in  these  places,  speaks  the  French  he 
has  picked  out  of  old  laws,  and  admires  nothing 
but  the  stories  he  has  heard  of  the  revels  that 
were  kept  there  before  his  time.  He  must  not 
be  a  town  gallant  neither,  that  lives  in  a  tavern 
and  an  ordinary,  that  cannot  imagine  how  an  hour 
should  be  spent  without  company  unless  it  be 
in  sleeping,  that  makes  court  to  all  the  women  he 
sees,  thinks  they  believe  him,  and  laughs  and  is 
laughed  at  equally.  Nor  a  travelled  Monsieur 
whose  head  is  all  feather  inside  and  outside,  that 
can  talk  of  nothing  but  dances  and  duets,  and  has 
courage  enough  to  wear  slashes  when  every  one 
else  dies  with  cold  to  see  him.  He  must  not  be 
a  fool  of  no  sort,  nor  peevish,  nor  ill-natured,  nor 
proud,  nor  covetous;  and  to  all  this  must  be  added, 
that  he  must  love  me  and  I  him  as  much  as  we 
are  capable  of  loving.  Without  all  this,  his 
fortune,  though  never  so  great,  would  not  satisfy 
me ;  and  with  it,  a  very  moderate  one  would  keep 
me  from  ever  repenting  my  disposal. 


L  ife  at  Chicksands.  1 7 1 

I  have  been  as  large  and  as  particular  in  my 
descriptions  as  my  cousin  Molle  is  in  his  of 
Moor  Park, — but  that  you  know  the  place  so 
well  I  would  send  it  you, — nothing  can  come  near 
his  patience  in  writing  it,  but  my  reading  on't. 
Would  you  had  sent  me  your  father's  letter,  it 
would  not  have  been  less  welcome  to  me  than  to 
you  ;  and  you  may  safely  believe  that  I  am  equally 
concerned  with  you  in  anything.  I  should  be 
pleased  to  see  something  of  my  Lady  Carlisle's 
writing,  because  she  is  so  extraordinary  a  person. 
I  have  been  thinking  of  sending  you  my  picture 
till  I  could  come  myself;  but  a  picture  is  but  dull 
company,  and  that  you  need  not ;  besides,  I 
cannot  tell  whether  it  be  very  like  me  or  not, 
though  'tis  the  best  I  ever  had  drawn  for  me,  and 
Mr.  Lilly  [Lely]  will  have  it  that  he  never  took 
more  pains  to  make  a  good  one  in  his  life,  and 
that  was  it  I  think  that  spoiled  it.  He  was  con- 
demned for  making  the  first  he  drew  for  me  a 
little  worse  than  I,  and  in  making  this  better  he 
has  made  it  as  unlike  as  t'other.  He  is  now, 
I  think,  at  my  Lord  Pagett's  at  Marloe  [Marlow], 
where  I  am  promised  he  shall  draw  a  picture  of 
my  Lady  for  me, — she  gives  it  me,  she  says,  as 
the  greatest  testimony  of  her  friendship  to  me, 
for  by  her  own  rule  she  is  past  the  time  of  having 
pictures  taken  of  her.  After  eighteen,  she  says, 
there  is  no  face  but  decays  apparently ;  I  would 
fain  have  had  her  excepted  such  as  had  never 
been  beauties,  for  my  comfort,  but  she  would 
not. 


172  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

When  you  see  your  friend  Mr.  Heningham, 
you  may  tell  him  in  his  ear  there  is  a  willow 
garland  coming  towards  him.  He  might  have 
sped  better  in  his  suit  if  he  had  made  court  to 
me,  as  well  as  to  my  Lady  Ruthin.  She  has 
been  my  wife  this  seven  years,  and  whosoever 
pretends  there  must  ask  my  leave.  I  have  now 
given  my  consent  that  she  shall  marry  a  very 
pretty  little  gentleman,  Sir  Christopher  Yelverton's 
son,  and  I  think  we  shall  have  a  wedding  ere  it 
be  long.  My  Lady  her  mother,  in  great  kindness, 
would  have  recommended  Heningham  to  me,  and 
told  me  in  a  compliment  that  I  was  fitter  for  him 
than  her  daughter,  who  was  younger,  and  there- 
fore did  not  understand  the  world  so  well ;  that 
she  was  certain  if  he  knew  me  he  would  be 
extremely  taken,  for  I  would  make  just  that  kind 
of  wife  he  looked  for.  I  humbly  thanked  her, 
but  said  I  was  certain  he  would  not  make  that 
kind  of  husband  I  looked  for, — and  so  it  went  no 
further. 

I  expect  my  eldest  brother  here  shortly,  whose 
fortune  is  well  mended  by  my  other  brother's 
death,  so  as  if  he  were  satisfied  himself  with  what 
he  has  done,  I  know  no  reason  why  he  might  not 
be  very  happy  ;  but  I  am  afraid  he  is  not.  I  have 
not  seen  my  sister  since  I  knew  she  was  so ;  but, 
sure,  she  can  have  lost  no  beauty,  for  I  never  saw 
any  that  she  had,  but  good  black  eyes,  which 
cannot  alter.  He  loves  her,  I  think,  at  the 
ordinary  rate  of  husbands,  but  not  enough,  I 
believe,  to  marry  her  so  much  to  his  disadvantage 


Life  at  Chicksands.  173 

if  it  were  to  do  again ;  and  that  would  kill  me 
were  I  as  she,  for  I  could  be  infinitely  better 
satisfied  with  a  husband  that  had  never  loved  me 
in  hopes  he  might,  than  with  one  that  began  to 
love  me  less  than  he  had  done. 

I  am  yours. 

Letter  37. 

SIR, — You  say  I  abuse  you ;  and  Jane  says  you 
abuse  me  when  you  say  you  are  not  melancholy  : 
which  is  to  be  believed  ?  Neither,  I  think  ;  for  I 
could  not  have  said  so  positively  (as  it  seems  she 
did)  that  I  should  not  be  in  town  till  my  brother 
came  back :  he  was  not  gone  when  she  writ,  nor 
is  not  yet ;  and  if  my  brother  Peyton  had  come 
before  his  going,  I  had  spoiled  her  prediction. 
But  now  it  cannot  be ;  he  goes  on  Monday  or 
Tuesday  at  farthest.  I  hope  you  did  truly  with 
me,  too,  in  saying  that  you  are  not  melancholy 
(though  she  does  not  believe  it).  I  am  thought 
so,  many  times,  when  I  am  not  at  all  guilty  on't. 
How  often  do  I  sit  in  company  a  whole  day,  and 
when  they  are  gone  am  not  able  to  give  an 
account  of  six  words  that  was  said,  and  many 
times  could  be  so  much  better  pleased  with  the 
entertainment  my  own  thoughts  give  me,  that 
'tis  all  I  can  do  to  be  so  civil  as  not  to  let  them 
see  they  trouble  me.  This  may  be  your  disease. 
However,  remember  you  have  promised  me  to 
be  careful  of  yourself,  and  that  if  I  secure  what 
you  have  entrusted  me  with,  you  will  answer  for 
the  rest.  Be  this  our  bargain  then  ;  and  look 


174  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

that  you  give  me  as  good  an  account  of  one  as  i 
shall  give  you  of  t'other.  In  earnest,  I  was 
strangely  vexed  to  see  myself  forced  to  disappoint 
you  so,  and  felt  your  trouble  and  my  own  too. 
How  often  I  have  wished  myself  with  you,  though 
but  for  a  day,  for  an  hour  :  I  would  have  given  all 
the  time  I  am  to  spend  here  for  it  with  all  my  heart. 
You  could  not  but  have  laughed  if  you  had 
seen  me  last  night.  My  brother  and  Mr.  Gibson 
were  talking  by  the  fire ;  and  I  sat  by,  but  as  no 
part  of  the  company.  Amongst  other  things 
(which  I  did  not  at  all  mind),  they  fell  into  a 
discourse  of  flying ;  and  both  agreed  it  was  very 
possible  to  find  out  a  way  that  people  might  fly 
like  birds,  and  despatch  their  journeys  :  so  I,  that 
had  not  said  a  word  all  night,  started  up  at  that, 
and  desired  they  would  say  a  little  more  on't,  for 
I  had  not  marked  the  beginning ;  but  instead  of 
that,  they  both  fell  into  so  violent  a  laughing,  that 
I  should  appear  so  much  concerned  in  such  an 
art ;  but  they  little  knew  of  what  use  it  might 
have  been  to  me.  Yet  I  saw  you  last  night,  but 
'twas  in  a  dream ;  and  before  I  could  say  a  word 
to  you,  or  you  to  me,  the  disorder  my  joy  to  see 
you  had  put  me  into  awakened  me.  Just  now  I 
was  interrupted,  too,  and  called  away  to  entertain 
two  dumb  gentlemen  ; — you  may  imagine  whether 
I  was  pleased  to  leave  my  writing  to  you  for  their 
company ; — they  have  made  such  a  tedious  visit, 
too;  and  I  am  so  tired  with  making  of  signs  and 
tokens  for  everything  I  had  to  say.  Good  God ! 
how  do  those  that  live  with  them  always  ?  They 


Life  at  Chicksands.  \  75 

are  brothers ;  and  the  eldest  is  a  baronet,  has 
a  good  estate,  a  wife  and  three  or  four  children. 
He  was  my  servant  heretofore,  and  comes  to  see 
me  still  for  old  love's  sake ;  but  if  he  could  have 
made  me  mistress  of  the  world  I  could  not  have 
had  him ;  and  yet  I'll  swear  he  has  nothing  to  be 
disliked  in  him  but  his  want  of  tongue,  which  in  a 
woman  might  have  been  a  virtue. 

I  sent  you  a  part  of  Cyrus  last  week,  where 
you  will  meet  with  one  Doralise  in  the  story  of 
Abradah  and  Panthee.  The  whole  story  is  very 
good ;  but  the  humour  makes  the  best  part  of  it. 
I  am  of  her  opinion  in  most  things  that  she  says 
in  her  character  of  "  U  homiest  homme  "  that  she 
is  in  search  of,  and  her  resolution  of  receiving 
no  heart  that  had  been  offered  to  anybody  else. 
Pray,  tell  me  how  you  like  her,  and  what  fault 
you  find  in  my  Lady  Carlisle's  letter  ?  Methinks 
the  hand  and  the  style  both  show  her  a  great 
person,  and  'tis  writ  in  the  way  that's  now 
affected  by  all  that  pretend  to  wit  and  good 
breeding ;  only,  I  am  a  little  scandalized  to  con- 
fess that  she  uses  that  word  faithful,  —  she  that 
never  knew  how  to  be  so  in  her  life. 

I  have  sent  you  my  picture  because  you  wished 
for  it ;  but,  pray,  let  it  not  presume  to  disturb  my 
Lady  Sunderland's.  Put  it  in  some  corner  where 
no  eyes  may  find  it  out  but  yours,  to  whom  it  is 
only  intended.  'Tis  riot  a  very  good  one,  but  the 
best  I  shall  ever  have  drawn  of  me  ;  for,  as  my 
Lady  says,  my  time  for  pictures  is  past,  and  there- 
fore I  have  always  refused  to  part  with  this, 


176  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

because  I  was  sure  the  next  would  be  a  worse. 
There  is  a  beauty  in  youth  that  every  one  has 
once  in  their  lives ;  and  I  remember  my  mother 
used  to  say  there  was  never  anybody  (that  was 
not  deformed)  but  were  handsome,  to  some 
reasonable  degree,  once  between  fourteen  and 
twenty.  It  must  hang  with  the  light  on  the  left 
hand  of  it ;  and  you  may  keep  it  if  you  please 
till  I  bring  you  the  original.  But  then  I  must 
borrow  it  (for  'tis  no  more  mine,  if  you  like  it), 
because  my  brother  is  often  bringing  people  into 
my  closet  where  it  hangs,  to  show  them  other 
pictures  that  are  there ;  and  if  he  miss  this  long 
thence,  'twould  trouble  his  jealous  head. 

You  are  not  the  first  that  has  told  me  I  knew 
better  what  quality  I  would  not  have  in  a  husband 
than  what  I  would ;  but  it  was  more  pardonable 
in  them.  I  thought  you  had  understood  better 
what  kind  of  person  I  liked  than  anybody  else 
could  possibly  have  done,  and  therefore  did  not 
think  it  necessary  to  make  you  that  description 
too.  Those  that  I  reckoned  up  were  only  such  as 
I  could  not  be  persuaded  to  have  upon  no  terms, 
though  I  had  never  seen  such  a  person  in  my 
life  as  Mr.  Temple :  not  but  that  all  those  may 
make  very  good  husbands  to  some  women ;  but 
they  are  so  different  from  my  humour  that  'tis  not 
possible  we  should  ever  agree ;  for  though  it 
might  be  reasonably  enough  expected  that  I 
should  conform  mine  to  theirs  (to  my  shame  be 
it  spoken),  I  could  never  do  it.  And  I  have  lived 
so  long  in  the  world,  and  so  much  at  my  own 


Life  at  Chicksauds.  177 

liberty,  that  whosoever  has  me  must  be  content 
to  take  me  as  they  find  me,  without  hope  of  ever 
making  me  other  than  I  am.  I  cannot  so  much 
as  disguise  my  humour.  When  it  was  designed 
that  I  should  have  had  Sir  Jus.,  my  brother 
used  to  tell  me  he  was  confident  that,  with  all  his 
wisdom,  any  woman  that  had  wit  and  discretion 
might  make  an  ass  of  him,  and  govern  him  as  she 
pleased.  I  could  not  deny  that  possibly  it  might 
be  so,  but  'twas  that  I  was  sure  I  could  never 
do ;  and  though  'tis  likely  I  should  have  forced 
myself  to  so  much  compliance  as  was  necessary 
for  a  reasonable  wife,  yet  farther  than  that  no 
design  could  ever  have  carried  me ;  and  I  could 
not  have  flattered  him  into  a  belief  that  I  admired 
him,  to  gain  more  than  he  and  all  his  generation 
are  worth. 

'Tis  such  an  ease  (as  you  say)  not  to  be 
solicitous  to  please  others  :  in  earnest,  I  am  no 
more  concerned  whether  people  think  me  hand- 
some or  ill-favoured,  whether  they  think  I  have 
wit  or  that  I  have  none,  than  I  am  whether  they 
think  my  name  Elizabeth  or  Dorothy.  I  would 
do  nobody  no  injury  ;  but  I  should  never  design 
to  please  above  one ;  and  that  one  I  must  love 
too,  or  else  I  should  think  it  a  trouble,  and  con- 
sequently not  do  it.  I  have  made  a  general 
confession  to  you ;  will  you  give  me  absolution  ? 
Methinks  you  should ;  for  you  are  not  much 
better  by  your  own  relation  ;  therefore  'tis  easiest 
to  forgive  one  another.  When  you  hear  any- 
thing from  your  father,  remember  that  I  am 

M 


178  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

his  humble  servant,  and  much   concerned  in  his 
good  health. 

I  am  yours. 

Letter^. — Lady  Isabella  is  Lady  Isabella  Rich,  my 
Lady  Diana's  eldest  sister.  She  married  Sir  James 
Thynne.  Many  years  ago  she  had  an  intrigue  with  the 
Duke  of  Ormond,  by  whom  she  had  a  son,  but  Dorothy 
speaks,  I  think,  of  some  later  scandal  than  this. 

My  Lady  Pembroke  was  the  daughter  of  the  Earl  of 
Cumberland.  She  first  married  Richard  Earl  of  Dorset, 
and  afterwards  the  Earl  of  Pembroke.  She  is  described 
as  a  woman  whose  mind  was  endowed  by  nature  with 
very  extraordinary  attributes.  Lord  Pembroke,  on  the 
other  hand,  according  to  Clarendon,  pretended  to  no  other 
qualification  "  than  to  understand  horses  and  dogs  very 
well,  and  to  be  believed  honest  and  generous."  His 
stables  vied  with  palaces,  and  his  falconry  was  furnished 
at  immense  expense;  but  in  his  private  life  he  was 
characterized  by  gross  ignorance  and  vice,  and  his 
public  character  was  marked  by  ingratitude  and  insta- 
bility. The  life  of  Lady  Pembroke  was  embittered  by 
this  man  for  near  twenty  years,  and  she  was  at  length 
compelled  to  separate  from  him.  She  lived  alone,  until 
her  husband's  death,  which  took  place  in  January  1650. 
One  can  understand  that  they  were  entirely  unsuited 
to  each  other,  when  Lady  Pembroke  in  her  Memorials  is 
found  to  write  thus  of  her  husband  :  "  He  was  no  scholar, 
having  passed  but  three  or  four  months  at  Oxford,  when 
he  was  taken  thence  after  his  father's  death.  He  was 
of  quick  apprehension,  sharp  understanding,  very  crafty 
withal ;  of  a  discerning  spirit,  but  a  choleric  nature, 
increased  by  the  office  he  held  of  Chamberlain  to  the 
King."  Why,  then,  did  the  accomplished  Lady  Anne 
Clifford  unite  herself  to  so  worthless  a  person  ?  Does 
she  not  answer  this  question  for  us  when  she  writes  that 
he  was  "  the  greatest  nobleman  in  England  "  ? 


Life  at  Chicksands.  179 

It  is  of  some  interest  to  us  to  remember  that  Francis 
Osborne,  Dorothy's  uncle  (her  father's  youngest  brother), 
was  Master  of  the  Horse  to  this  great  nobleman. 

Whether  Lord  and  Lady  Leicester  were,  as  Dorothy 
says,  "  in  great  disorder  "  at  this  time,  it  is  impossible  to 
say.  Lady  Leicester  is  said  to  have  been  of  a  warm 
and  irritable  temper,  and  Lord  Leicester  is  described 
by  Clarendon  as  "staggering  and  irresolute  in  his 
nature."  However,  nothing  is  said  of  their  quarrels  ; 
but,  on  the  other  hand,  there  is  a  very  pathetic  account 
in  Lord  Leicester's  journal  of  his  wife's  death  in  1659, 
which  shows  that,  whatever  this  "  disorder "  may  have 
been,  a  complete  reconciliation  was  afterwards  effected. 

SIR, — You  would  have  me  say  something  of 
my  coming.  Alas  !  how  fain  I  would  have  some- 
thing to  say,  but  I  know  no  more  than  you  saw  in 
that  letter  I  sent  you.  How  willingly  would  I 
tell  you  anything  that  I  thought  would  please 
you ;  but  I  confess  I  do  not  like  to  give  uncertain 
hopes,  because  I  do  not  care  to  receive  them. 
And  I  thought  there  was  no  need  of  saying  I 
would  be  sure  to  take  the  first  occasion,  and  that 
I  waited  with  impatience  for  it,  because  I  hoped 
you  had  believed  all  that  already ;  and  so  you  do, 
I  am  sure.  Say  what  you  will,  you  cannot  but 
know  my  heart  enough  to  be  assured  that  I  wish 
myself  with  you,  for  my  own  sake  as  well  as 
yours.  'Tis  rather  that  you  love  to  hear  me  say 
it  often,  than  that  you  doubt  it ;  for  I  am  no 
dissembler.  I  could  not  cry  for  a  husband  that 
were  indifferent  to  me  (like  your  cousin) ;  no,  nor 
for  a  husband  that  I  loved  neither.  I  think 
'twould  break  my  heart  sooner  than  make  me 


I  So  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

shed  a  tear.  'Tis  ordinary  griefs  that  make  me 
weep.  In  earnest,  you  cannot  imagine  how  often 
I  have  been  told  that  I  had  too  much  franchise 
in  my  humour,  and  that  'twas  a  point  of  good 
breeding  to  disguise  handsomely ;  but  I  answered 
still  for  myself,  that  'twas  not  to  be  expected  I 
should  be  exactly  bred,  that  had  never  seen  a 
Court  since  I  was  capable  of  anything.  Yet  I 
know  so  much, — that  my  Lady  Carlisle  would  take 
it  very  ill  if  you  should  not  let  her  get  the  point 
of  honour ;  'tis  all  she  aims  at,  to  go  beyond 
everybody  in  compliment.  But  are  you  not  afraid 
of  giving  me  a  strong  vanity  with  telling  me  I 
write  better  than  the  most  extraordinary  person 
in  the  world  ?  If  I  had  not  the  sense  to  under- 
stand that  the  reason  why  you  like  my  letters 
better  is  only  because  they  are  kinder  than  hers, 
such  a  word  might  have  undone  me. 

But  my  Lady  Isabella,  that  speaks,  and  looks, 
and  sings,  and  plays,  and  all  so  prettily,  why  can- 
not I  say  that  she  is  free  from  faults  as  her  sister 
believes  her  ?  No ;  I  am  afraid  she  is  not,  and 
sorry  that  those  she  has  are  so  generally  known. 
My  brother  did  not  bring  them  for  an  example ; 
but  I  did,  and  made  him  confess  she  had  better 
have  married  a  beggar  than  that  beast  with  all 
his  estate.  She  cannot  be  excused  ;  but  certainly 
they  run  a  strange  hazard  that  have  such  hus- 
bands as  makes  them  think  they  cannot  be  more 
undone,  whatever  course  they  take.  Oh,  'tis  ten 
thousand  pities!  I  remember  she  was  the  first 
woman  that  ever  I  took  notice  of  for  extremely 


Life  at  Chicksands.  181 

handsome ;  and,  in  earnest,  she  was  then  the 
loveliest  lady  that  could  be  looked  on,  I  think. 
But  what  should  she  do  with  beauty  now  ?  Were 
I  as  she,  I  should  hide  myself  from  all  the  world ; 
I  should  think  all  people  that  looked  on  me  read 
it  in  my  face  and  despised  me  in  their  hearts ;  and 
at  the  same  time  they  made  me  a  leg,  or  spoke 
civilly  to  me,  I  should  believe  they  did  not  think 
I  deserved  their  respect.  I'll  tell  you  who  he 
urged  for  an  example  though,  my  Lord  Pem- 
broke and  my  Lady,  who,  they  say,  are  upon 
parting  after  all  his  passion  for  her,  and  his 
marrying  her  against  the  consent  of  all  his 
friends ;  but  to  that  I  answered,  that  though  he 
pretended  great  kindness  he  had  for  her,  I  never 
heard  of  much  she  had  for  him,  and  knew  she 
married  him  merely  for  advantage.  Nor  is  she  a 
woman  of  that  discretion  as  to  do  all  that  might 
become  her,  when  she  must  do  it  rather  as  things 
fit  to  be  done  than  as  things  she  inclined  to. 
Besides  that,  what  with  a  spleenatick  side  and  a 
chemical  head,  he  is  but  an  odd  body  himself. 

But  is  it  possible  what  they  say,  that  my  Lord 
Leicester  and  my  Lady  are  in  great  disorder,  and 
that  after  forty  years'  patience  he  has  now  taken 
up  the  cudgels  and  resolved  to  venture  for  the 
mastery  ?  Methinks  he  wakes  out  of  his  long 
sleep  like  a  froward  child,  that  wrangles  and 
fights  with  all  that  comes  near  it.  They  say  he 
has  turned  away  almost  every  servant  in  the 
house,  and  left  her  at  Penshurst  to  digest  it  as 
she  can. 


1 82  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

What  an  age  do  we  live  in,  where  'tis  a  miracle 
if  in  ten  couples  that  are  married,  two  of  them 
live  so  as  not  to  publish  to  the  world  that  they 
cannot  agree.  I  begin  to  be  of  your  opinion  of 
him  that  (when  the  Roman  Church  first  pro- 
pounded whether  it  were  not  convenient  for 
priests  not  to  marry)  said  that  it  might  be  con- 
venient enough,  but  sure  it  was  not  our  Saviour's 
intention,  for  He  commanded  that  all  should  take 
up  their  cross  and  follow  Him ;  and  for  his  part, 
he  was  confident  there  was  no  such  cross  as  a 
wife.  This  is  an  ill  doctrine  for  me  to  preach ; 
but  to  my  friends  I  cannot  but  confess  that  I  am 
afraid  much  of  the  fault  lies  in  us ;  for  I  have 
observed  that  formerly,  in  great  families,  the  men 
seldom  disagree,  but  the  women  are  always  scold- 
ing ;  and  'tis  most  certain,  that  let  the  husband  be 
what  he  will,  if  the  wife  have  but  patience  (which, 
sure,  becomes  her  best),  the  disorder  cannot  be 
great  enough  to  make  a  noise ;  his  anger  alone, 
when  it  meets  with  nothing  that  resists  it,  cannot 
be  loud  enough  to  disturb  the  neighbours.  And 
such  a  wife  may  be  said  to  do  as  a  kinswoman  of 
ours  that  had  a  husband  who  was  not  always 
himself;  and  when  he  was  otherwise,  his  humour 
was  to  rise  in  the  night,  and  with  two  bedstaves 
labour  on  the  table  an  hour  together.  She  took 
care  every  night  to  lay  a  great  cushion  upon  the 
table  for  him  to  strike  on,  that  nobody  might  hear 
him,  and  so  discover  his  madness.  But  'tis  a  sad 
thing  when  all  one's  happiness  is  only  that  the 
world  does  not  know  you  are  miserable. 


Life  at  Ckicksands  183 

For  my  part,  I  think  it  were  very  convenient 
that  all  such  as  intend  to  marry  should  live 
together  in  the  same  house  some  years  of  pro- 
bation ;  and  if,  in  all  that  time,  they  never  dis- 
agreed, they  should  then  be  permitted  to  marry 
if  they  please  ;  but  how  few  would  do  it  then !  I 
do  'not  remember  that  I  ever  saw  or  heard  of  any 
couple  that  were  bred  up  so  together  (as  many 
you  know  are,  that  are  designed  for  one  another 
from  children),  but  they  always  disliked  one 
another  extremely ;  parted,  if  it  were  left  in  their 
choice.  If  people  proceeded  with  this  caution, 
the  world  would  end  sooner  than  is  expected,  I 
believe ;  and  because,  with  all  my  wariness,  'tis 
not  impossible  but  I  may  be  caught,  nor  likely 
that  I  should  be  wiser  than  anybody  else,  'twere 
best,  I  think,  that  I  said  no  more  on  this  point. 

What  would  I  give  to  know  that  sister  of 
yours  that  is  so  good  at  discovering ;  sure  she  is 
excellent  company ;  she  has  reason  to  laugh  at  you 
when  you  would  have  persuaded  her  the  "  moss 
was  sweet."  I  remember  Jane  brought  some  of  it 
to  me,  to  ask  me  if  I  thought  it  had  no  ill  smell, 
and  whether  she  might  venture  to  put  it  in  the 
box  or  not.  I  told  her  as  I  thought,  she  could 
not" put  a  more  innocent  thing  there,  for  I  did  not 
find  it  had  any  smell  at  all ;  besides,  I  was  willing 
it  should  do  me  some  service  in  requital  for 
the  pains  I  had  taken  for  it.  My  niece  and  I 
wandered  through  some  eight  hundred  acres  of 
wood  in  search  of  it,  to  make  rocks  and  strange 
things  that  her  head  is  full  of,  and  she  admires  it 


184  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

more  than  you  did.  If  she  had  known  I  had 
consented  it  should  have  been  used  to  fill  up  a 
box,  she  would  have  condemned  me  extremely. 
I  told  Jane  that  you  liked  her  present,  and  she,  I 
find,  is  resolved  to  spoil  your  compliment,  and 
make  you  confess  at  last  that  they  are  not  worth 
the  eating ;  she  threatens  to  send  you  more,  but 
you  would  forgive  her  if  you  saw  how  she  baits 
me  every  day  to  go  to  London  ;  all  that  I  can  say 
will  not  satisfy  her.  When  I  urge  (as  'tis  true) 
that  there  is  a  necessity  of  my  stay  here,  she 
grows  furious,  cries  you  will  die  with  melancholy, 
and  confounds  me  so  with  stories  of  your  ill- 
humour,  that  I'll  swear  I  think  I  should  go  merely 
to  be  at  quiet,  if  it  were  possible,  though  there 
were  no  other  reason  for  it.  But  I  hope  'tis  not 
so  ill  as  she  would  have  me  believe  it,  though  I 
know  your  humour  is  strangely  altered  from  what 
it  was,  and  am  sorry  to  see  it.  Melancholy  must 
needs  do  you  more  hurt  than  to  another  to  whom 
it  may  be  natural,  as  I  think  it  is  to  me  ;  therefore 
if  you  loved  me  you  would  take  heed  on't.  Can 
you  believe  that  you  are  dearer  to  me  than  the 
whole  world  beside,  and  yet  neglect  yourself? 
If  you  do  not,  you  wrong  a  perfect  friendship ; 
and  if  you  do,  you  must  consider  my  interest  in 
you,  and  preserve  yourself  to  make  me  happy. 
Promise  me  this,  or  I  shall  haunt  you  worse  than 
she  does  me.  Scribble  how  you  please,  so  you 
make  your  letter  long  enough ;  you  see  I  give 
you  good  example;  besides,  I  can  assure  you  we 
do  perfectly  agree  if  you  receive  not  satisfaction 


Life  at  Chicksands.  185 

but  from  my  letters,  I   have  none  but  what  yours 
give  me. 

Letter  39. — Dorothy  has  been  in  London  since  her  last 
letter,  but  unfortunately  she  has  either  not  met  with 
Temple,  or  he  has  left  town  suddenly  whilst  she  was 
there,  on  some  unexplained  errand.  This  would  there- 
fore seem  a  natural  place  to  begin  a  new  chapter;  but 
as  we  have  very  shortly  to  come  to  a  series  of  unhappy 
letters,  quite  distinct  in  their  character  from  these,  I 
have  thought  fit  to  place  in  this  long  chapter  yet  a  few 
more  letters  after  Dorothy's  autumn  visit  to  London. 

Stephen  Marshall  was,  like  Hugh  Peters,  one  of  those 
preachers  who  was  able  to  exchange  the  obscurity  of  a 
country  parish  for  the  public  fame  of  a  London  pulpit, 
by  reason  of  a  certain  gift  of  rhetorical  power,  the  value 
of  which  it  is  impossible  to  estimate  to-day.  Such  of 
his  sermons  as  are  still  extant  are  prosy,  long-winded, 
dogmatic  absurdities,  overloaded  with  periphrastic  illus- 
trations in  scriptural  language.  They  are  meaningless 
to  a  degree,  which  would  make  one  wonder  at  the 
docility  and  patience  of  a  seventeenth  century  congre- 
gation, if  one  had  not  witnessed  a  similar  spirit  in 
congregations  of  to-day. 

There  is  no  honest  biography  of  Stephen  Marshall. 
In  the  news-books  and  tracts  of  the  day  we  find  refer- 
ences to  sermons  preached  by  him,  by  command,  before 
the  Army  of  the  Parliament,  and  we  have  reprints  of 
some  of  these.  I  have  searched  in  vain  to  find  the 
sermon  which  Dorothy  heard,  but  it  was  probably  not  a 
sermon  given  on  any  great  occasion,  and  we  may  believe 
it  was  never  printed.  There  is  an  amusing  scandalous 
tract,  called  the  Life  and  Death  of  Stephen  Marshall, 
which  is  so  full  of  "  evil  speaking,  lying,  and  slandering," 
as  to  be  quite  unworthy  of  quotation.  From  this  we 
may  take  it,  however,  that  he  was  born  at  Gorman- 
chester,  in  Cromwell's  county,  was  educated  at 


1 86  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osbornc. 

Emmanuel  College,  Cambridge,  and  that  before  he 
came  to  London  his  chief  cure  of  souls  was  at  Finching- 
field  in  Essex.  These,  and  the  records  of  his  London 
preaching,  are  the  only  facts  in  his  life's  history  which 
have  come  to  my  notice. 

My  Lord  Whitelocke  did  go  to  Sweden,  as  Dorothy 
surmises;  setting  sail  from  Plymouth  with  one  hundred 
honest  men,  on  October  26,  1653,  or  very  soon  after- 
wards, as  one  may  read  in  his  journal  of  the  progress  of 
the  Embassy.  That  he  should  fill  this  office,  appears  to 
have  been  proposed  to  him  by  Cromwell  in  September 
of  this  year. 

An  Act  of  Parliament  to  abolish  the  Chancery  was 
indeed  passed  in  the  August  of  this  year.  Well  may 
Lord  Keble  sore  lament,  and  the  rest  of  the  world 
rejoice,  at  such  news.  Joseph  Keble  was  a  well- 
known  law  reporter,  a  son  of  Serjeant  Richard  Keble. 
He  was  a  Fellow  of  All  Souls,  and  a  Bencher  of 
Gray's  Inn  ;  and,  furthermore,  was  one  of  the  Lords 
Commissioners  of  the  Great  Seal  from  1648-1654. 
There  was  "some  debate,"  says  Whitelocke,  "whether 
they  should  be  styled  '  Commissioners '  or  '  Lords  Com- 
missioners,' "  and  though  the  word  Lords  was  far  less 
acceptable  at  this  time  than  formerly,  yet  that  they 
might  not  seem  to  lessen  their  own  authority,  nor  the 
honour  of  their  office  constituted  by  them,  they  voted 
the  title  to  be  "  Lords  Commissioners." 

SIR, — If  want  of  kindness  were  the  only  crime 
I  exempted  from  pardon,  'twas  not  that  I  had  the 
least  apprehension  you  could  be  guilty  of  it ;  but 
to  show  you  (by  excepting  only  an  impossible 
thing)  that  I  excepted  nothing.  No,  in  earnest, 
I  can  fancy  no  such  thing  of  you,  or  if  I  could, 
the  quarrel  would  be  to  myself;  I  should  never 
forgive  my  own  folly  that  let  me  to  choose  a 


Life  at  Ckicksands.  187 

friend  that  could  be  false.  But  I'll  leave  this 
(which  is  not  much  to  the  purpose)  and  tell  you 
how,  with  my  usual  impatience,  I  expected  your 
letter,  and  how  cold  it  went  to  my  heart  to  see  it 
so  short  a  one.  'Twas  so  great  a  pain  to  me  that 
I  am  resolv'd  you  shall  not  feel  it ;  nor  can  I  in 
justice  punish  you  for  a  fault  unwillingly  com- 
mitted. If  I  were  your  enemy,  I  could  not  use 
you  ill  when  I  saw  Fortune  do  it  too,  and  in 
gallantry  and  good  nature  both,  I  should  think 
myself  rather  obliged  to  protect  you  from  her 
injury  (if  it  lay  in  my  power)  than  double  them 
upon  you.  These  things  considered,  I  believe 
this  letter  will  be  longer  than  ordinary, — kinder  I 
think  it  cannot  be.  I  always  speak  my  heart  to 
you ;  and  that  is  so  much  your  friend,  it  never 
furnishes  me  with  anything  to  your  disadvantage. 
I  am  glad  you  are  an  admirer  of  Telesile  as  well 
as  I  ;  in  my  opinion  'tis  a  fine  Lady,  but  I  know 
you  will  pity  poor  Amestris  strongly  when  you 
have  read  her  story.  I'll  swear  I  cried  for  her 
when  I  read  it  first,  though  she  were  but  an 
imaginary  person  ;  and,  sure,  if  anything  of  that 
kind  can  deserve  it,  her  misfortunes  may. 

God  forgive  me,  I  was  as  near  laughing 
yesterday  where  I  should  not.  Would  you 
believe  that  I  had  the  grace  to  go  hear  a 
sermon  upon  a  week  day?  In  earnest,  'tis  true; 
a  Mr.  Marshall  was  the  man  that  preached,  but 
never  anybody  was  so  defeated.  He  is  so  famed 
that  I  expected  rare  things  of  him,  and  seriously 
I  listened  to  him  as  if  he  had  been  St.  Paul ;  and 


1 88  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

what  do  you  think  he  told  us  ?  Why,  that  if  there 
were  no  kings,  no  queens,  no  lords,  no  ladies,  nor 
gentlemen,  nor  gentlewomen,  in  the  world,  'twould 
be  no  loss  to  God  Almighty  at  all.  This  we  had 
over  some  forty  times,  which  made  me  remember 
it  whether  I  would  or  not.  The  rest  was  much 
at  this  rate,  interlarded  with  the  prettiest  odd 
phrases,  that  I  had  the  most  ado  to  look  soberly 
enough  for  the  place  I  was  in  that  ever  I  had  in 
my  life.  He  does  not  preach  so  always,  sure  ? 
If  he  does,  I  cannot  believe  his  sermons  will  do 
much  towards  bringing  anybody  to  heaven  more 
than  by  exercising  their  patience.  Yet,  I'll  say 
that  for  him,  he  stood  stoutly  for  tithes,  though, 
in  my  opinion,  few  deserve  them  less  than  he ; 
and  it  may  be  he  would  be  better  without  them. 

Yet  you  are  not  convinced,  you  say,  that  to  be 
miserable  is  the  way  to  be  good ;  to  some  natures 
I  think  it  is  not,  but  there  are  many  of  so 
careless  and  vain  a  temper,  that  the  least  breath 
of  good  fortune  swells  them  with  so  much  pride, 
that  if  they  were  not  put  in  mind  sometimes  by  a 
sound  cross  or  two  that  they  are  mortal,  they 
would  hardly  think  it  possible  ;  and  though  'tis  a 
sign  of  a  servile  nature  when  fear  produces  more 
of  reverence  in  us  than  love,  yet  there  is  more 
danger  of  forgetting  oneself  in  a  prosperous 
fortune  than  in  the  contrary,  and  affliction  may  be 
the  surest  (though  not  the  pleasantest)  guide  to 
heaven.  What  think  you,  might  not  I  preach 
with  Mr.  Marshall  for  a  wager  ?  But  you  could 
fancy  a  perfect  happiness  here,  you  say ;  that  is 


Life  at  Chicksands.  189 

not  much,  many  people  do  so ;  but  I  never  heard 
of  anybody  that  ever  had  it  more  than  in  fancy, 
so  that  will  not  be  strange  if  you  should  miss  on't. 
One  may  be  happy  to  a  good  degree,  I  think,  in 
a  faithful  friend,  a  moderate  fortune,  and  a  retired 
life ;  further  than  this  I  know  nothing  to  wish  ; 
but  if  there  be  anything  beyond  it,  I  wish  it  you. 

You  did  not  tell  me  what  carried  you  out  of 
town  in  such  haste.  I  hope  .the  occasion  was 
good,  you  must  account  to  me  for  all  that  I  lost 
by  it.  I  shall  expect  a  whole  packet  next  week. 
Oh,  me !  I  have  forgot  this  once  or  twice  to  tell 
you,  that  if  it  be  no  inconvenience  to  you,  I  could 
wish  you  would  change  the  place  of  direction  for 
my  letters.  Certainly  that  Jones  knows  my  name,  I 
bespoke  a  saddle  of  him  once,  and  though  it  be  a 
good  while  agone,  yet  I  was  so  often  with  him 
about  it, — having  much  ado  to  make  him  under- 
stand how  I  would  have  it,  it  being  of  a  fashion 
he  had  never  seen,  though,  sure,  it  be  common, — 
that  I  am  confident  he  has  not  forgot  me.  Besides 
that,  upon  it  he  got  my  brother's  custom  ;  and  I 
cannot  tell  whether  he  does  not  use  the  shop  still. 
Jane  presents  her  humble  service  to  you,  and  has 
sent  you  something  in  a  box ;  'tis  hard  to  imagine 
what  she  can  find  here  to  present  you  withal, 
and  I  am  much  in  doubt  whether  you  will  not 
pay  too  dear  for  it  if  you  discharge  the  carriage. 
'Tis  a  pretty  freedom  she  takes,  but  you  may 
thank  yourself;  she  thinks  because  you  call  her 
fellow-servant,  she  may  use  you  accordingly.  I 
bred  her  better,  but  you  have  spoiled  her. 


i  go  Letters  front  Dorothy  Osbornc. 

Is  it  true  that  my  Lord  Whitlocke  goes 
Ambassador  where  my  Lord  Lisle  should  have 
gone  ?  I  know  not  how  he  may  appear  in  a 
Swedish  Court,  but  he  was  never  meant  for  a 
courtier  at  home,  I  believe.  Yet  'tis  a  gracious 
Prince ;  he  is  often  in  this  country,  and  always 
does  us  the  favour  to  send  for  his  fruit  hither. 
He  was  making  a  purchase  of  one  of  the  best 
houses  in  the  county.  I  know  not  whether  he 
goes  on  with  it ;  but  'tis  such  a  one  as  will  not 
become  anything  less  than  a  lord.  And  there  is 
a  talk  as  if  the  Chancery  were  going  down  ;  if  so, 
his  title  goes  with  it,  I  think.  'Twill  be  sad  news 
for  my  Lord  Keble's  son ;  he  will  have  nothing 
left  to  say  when  "  my  Lord,  my  father,"  is  taken 
from  him.  Were  it  not  better  that  I  had  nothing 
to  say  neither,  than  that  I  should  entertain  you 
with  such  senseless  things.  I  hope  I  am  half 
asleep,  nothing  else  can  excuse  me ;  if  I  were 
quite  asleep,  I  should  say  fine  things  to  you  ; 
1  often  dream  I  do ;  but  perhaps  if  I  could 
remember  them  they  are  no  wiser  than  my 
wakening  discourses.  Good-night. 

Letter  40. — A  letter  has  been  lost :  whether  Harrold 
or  Collins,  the  two  carriers,  were  either  or  both  of  them 
guilty  of  carelessness  in  the  delivery  of  these  letters,  it  is 
quite  impossible  to  say  now.  Dorothy  seems  to  think 
Harrold  delivered  the  letter,  and  it  was  mislaid  in 
London.  Perhaps  it  was  this  letter,  and  what  was 
written  about  it,  that  caused  all  those  latent  feelings  of 
despair  and  discontent  to  awaken  in  the  breasts  of  the 
two  lovers.  Was  this  the  spark  that  loneliness  and 


L  ife  at  Chicksands.  191 

absence  fanned  into  flame  ?     You  shall  judge  for  your- 
self, reader,  in  the  next  chapter. 

SIR, — That  you  may  be  at  more  certainty  here- 
after what  to  think,  let  me  tell  you  that  nothing 
could  hinder  me  from  writing  to  you  (as  well  for 
my  own  satisfaction  as  yours)  but  an  impossi- 
bility of  doing  it ;  nothing  but  death  or  a  dead 
palsy  in  my  hands,  or  something  that  had  the 
same  effect.  I  did  write  it,  and  gave  it  Harrold, 
but  by  an  accident  his  horse  fell  lame,  so  that  he 
could  not  set  out  on  Monday ;  but  on  Tuesday 
he  did  come  to  town ;  on  Wednesday,  carried  the 
letter  himself  (as  he  tells  me)  where  'twas  directed, 
which  was  to  Mr.  Copyn  in  Fleet  Street.  'Twas 
the  first  time  I  made  use  of  that  direction ;  no 
matter  and  I  had  not  done  it  then,  since  it  proves 
no  better.  Harrold  came  late  home  on  Thursday 
night  with  such  an  account  as  your  boy  gave  you  : 
that  coming  out  of  town  the  same  day  he  came 
in,  he  had  been  at  Fleet  Street  again,  but  there 
was  no  letter  for  him.  I  was  sorry,  but  I  did  not 
much  wonder  at  it  because  he  gave  so  little  time, 
and  resolved  to  make  my  best  of  that  I  had  by 
Collins.  I  read  it  over  often  enough  to  make  it 
equal  with  the  longest  letter  that  ever  was  writ, 
and  pleased  myself,  in  earnest  (as  much  as  it  was 
possible  for  me  in  the  humour  I  was  in),  to  think 
how  by  that  time  you  had  asked  me  pardon  for  the 
little  reproaches  you  had  made  me,  and  that  the 
kindness  and  length  of  my  letter  had  made  you 
amends  for  the  trouble  it  had  given  you  in  expect- 


192  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

ing  it.  But  I  am  not  a  little  annoyed  to  find  you 
had  it  not.  I  am  very  confident  it  was  delivered, 
and  therefore  you  must  search  where  the  fault  lies. 
Were  it  not  that  you  had  suffered  too  much 
already,  I  would  complain  a  little  of  you.  Why 
should  you  think  me  so  careless  of  anything  that 
you  were  concerned  in,  as  to  doubt  that  I  had 
writ  ?  Though  I  had  received  none  from  you,  I 
should  not  have  taken  that  occasion  to  revenge 
myself.  Nay,  I  should  have  concluded  you 
innocent,  and  have  imagined  a  thousand  ways 
how  it  might  happen,  rather  than  have  suspected 
your  want  of  kindness.  Why  should  not  you  be 
as  just  to  me  ?  But  I  will  not  chide,  it  may  be 
(as  long  as  we  have  been  friends)  you  do  not 
know  me  so  well  yet  as  to  make  an  absolute  judg- 
ment of  me  ;  but  if  I  know  myself  at  all,  if  I  am 
capable  of  being  anything,  'tis  a  perfect  friend. 
Yet  I  must  chide  too.  Why  did  you  get  such  a 
cold  ?  Good  God  !  how  careless  you  are  of  a  life 
that  (by  your  own  confession)  I  have  told  you 
makes  all  the  happiness  of  mine.  'Tis  unkindly 
done.  What  is  left  for  me  to  say,  when  that  will 
not  prevail  with  you  ;  or  how  can  you  persuade 
me  to  a  cure  of  myself,  when  you  refuse  to  give 
me  the  example  ?  I  have  nothing  in  the  world 
that  gives  me  the  least  desire  of  preserving  my- 
self, but  the  opinion  I  have  you  would  not  be 
willing  to  lose  me  ;  and  yet,  if  you  saw  with  what 
caution  I  live  (at  least  to  what  I  did  before),  you 
would  reproach  it  to  yourself  sometimes,  and  might 
grant,  perhaps,  that  you  have  not  got  the  ad  van- 


Life  at  Chicksands.  193 

tage  of  me  in  friendship  so  much  as  you  imagine. 
What  (besides  your  consideration)  could  oblige 
me  to  live  and  lose  all  the  rest  of  my  friends 
thus  one  after  another  ?  Sure  I  am  not  insensible 
nor  very  ill-natured,  and  yet  I'll  swear  I  think  I 
do  not  afflict  myself  half  so  much  as  another 
would  do  that  had  my  losses.  I  pay  nothing  of 
sadness  to  the  memory  of  my  poor  brother,  but 
I  presently  disperse  it  with  thinking  what  I  owe 
in  thankfulness  that  'tis  not  you  I  mourn  for. 

Well,  give  me  no  more  occasions  to  complain  of 
you,  you  know  not  what  may  follow.  Here  was 
Mr.  Freeman  yesterday  that  made  me  a  very  kind 
visit,  and  said  so  many  fine  things  to  me,  that  I 
was  confounded  with  his  civilities,  and  had  nothing 
to  say  for  myself.  I  could  have  wished  then  that 
he  had  considered  me  less  and  my  niece  more;  but 
if  you  continue  to  use  me  thus,  in  earnest,  I'll  not 
be  so  much  her  friend  hereafter.  Methinks  I  see 
you  laugh  at  all  my  threatenings ;  and  not  without 
reason.  Mr.  Freeman,  you  believe,  is  designed  for 
somebody  that  deserves  him  better.  I  think  so 
too,  and  am  not  sorry  for  it ;  and  you  have  reason 
to  believe  I  never  can  be  other  than 

Your  faithful  friend. 


N 


CHAPTER     IV. 

DESPONDENCY.       CHRISTMAS   1653. 

THIS  chapter  of  letters  is  a  sad  note,  sounding  out  from 
among  its  fellows  with  mournful  clearness.  There  had 
seemed  a  doubt  whether  all  these  letters  must  be 
regarded  as  of  one  series,  or  whether,  more  correctly,  it 
was  to  be  assumed  that  Dorothy  and  Temple  had  their 
lovers'  quarrels,  for  the  well -understood  pleasure  of 
kissing  friends  again.  But  you  will  agree  that  these 
lovers  were  not  altogether  as  other  lovers  are,  that  their 
troubles  were  too  real  and  too  many  for  their  love  to 
need  the  stimulus  of  constant  April  shower  quarrels  ; 
and  these  letters  are  very  serious  in  their  sadness,  im- 
printing themselves  in  the  mind  after  constant  reading 
as  landmarks  clearly  defining  the  course  and  progress 
of  an  unusual  event  in  these  lovers'  history — a  misunder- 
standing. 

The  letters  are  written  at  Christmastide,  1653.  Dorothy 
had  returned  from  London  to  Chicksands,  and  either 
had  not  seen  Temple  or  he  had  left  London  hurriedly 
whilst  she  was  there.  There  is  a  letter  lost.  Dorothy's 
youngest  brother  is  lately  dead  ;  her  niece  has  left  her ; 
her  companion  Jane  is  sick  ;  her  father,  growing  daily 
weaker  and  weaker,  was  sinking  into  his  grave  before 
her  eyes.  No  bright  chance  seemed  to  open  before  her, 
and  their  marriage  seemed  an  impossibility.  For  a 
moment  she  loses  faith,  not  in  Temple,  but  in  fortune ; 
faith  once  gone,  hope,  missing  her  comrade,  flies  away 
in  search  of  her.  She  is  alone  in  the  old  house  with  her 


Despon  dency.  195 

dying  father,  and  with  her  brother  pouring  his  unkind 
gossip  into  her  unwilling  ear,  whilst  the  sad  long  year 
draws  slowly  to  its  close,  and  there  is  no  sign  of  better 
fortune  for  the  lovers ;  can  we  wonder,  then,  that 
Dorothy,  lonely  and  unaided,  pacing  in  the  damp 
garden  beneath  the  bare  trees,  with  all  the  bright 
summer  changed  into  decay,  lost  faith  and  hope  ? 

Temple,  when  Dorothy's  thoughts  reach  him,  must 
have  replied  with  some  impatience.  There  are  stories, 
too,  set  about  concerning  her  good  name  by  one  Mr.  B., 
to  disturb  Temple.  Temple  can  hardly  have  given 
credence  to  these,  but  he  may  have  complained  of  them 
to  Dorothy,  who  is  led  to  declare,  "  I  am  the  most 
unfortunate  woman  breathing,  but  I  was  never  false," 
though  she  forgives  her  lover  "  all  those  strange  thoughts 
he  has  had  "  of  her.  Whatever  were  the  causes  of  the 
quarrel,  or  rather  the  despondency,  we  shall  never  know 
accurately.  Dorothy  was  not  the  woman  to  vapour  for 
months  about  "  an  early  and  a  quiet  grave."  When  she 
writes  this  it  is  written  in  the  deepest  earnest  of  despair  ; 
when  this  mood  is  over  it  is  over  for  ever,  and  we  emerge 
into  a  clear  atmosphere  of  hope  and  content.  The 
despondency  has  been  agonizing,  but  the  agony  is  sharp 
and  rapid,  and  gives  place  to  the  wisdom  of  hope. 

Temple  now  comes  to  Chicksands  at  an  early  date. 
There  is  a  new  interchange  of  vows.  Never  again  will 
their  faith  be  shaken  by  fretting  and  despair  ;  and  these 
vows  are  never  broken,  but  remain  with  the  lovers  until 
they  are  set  aside  by  others,  taken  under  the  solemn 
sanction  of  the  law,  and  the  old  troubles  vanish  in  new 
responsibilities  and  a  new  life. 

Letter  41. — Lady  Anne  Blunt  was  a  daughter  of  the 
Earl  of  Newport.  Her  mother  had  turned  Catholic  in 
1637,  which  had  led  to  an  estrangement  between  her  and 
her  husband,  and  we  may  conclude  poor  Lady  Anne  had 
by  no  means  a  happy  home.  There  are  two  scandals 


196  Letters  from  Dorothy  Os  borne. 

connected  with  her  name.  She  appears  to  have  run 
away  with  one  William  Blunt,  —  the  "  Mr.  Blunt " 
mentioned  by  Dorothy  in  her  next  letter ;  and  on 
April  1 8,  1654,  she  petitioned  the  Protector  to  issue  a 
special  commission  upon  her  whole  case.  Mr.  Blunt 
pretended  that  she  was  contracted  to  him  for  the  sake, 
it  is  said,  of  gaining  money  thereby.  There  being  no 
Bishop's  Court  at  this  time,  there  are  legal  difficulties 
in  the  way,  and  we  never  hear  the  result  of  the  petition. 
Again,  in  February  1655,  one  Mr.  Porter  finds  him- 
self committed  to  Lambeth  House  for  carrying  away 
the  Lady  Anne  Blunt,  and  endeavouring  to  marry  her 
without  her  father's  consent 

SIR,  —  Having  tired  myself  with  thinking,  I 
mean  to  weary  you  with  reading,  and  revenge 
myself  that  way  for  all  the  unquiet  thoughts  you 
have  given  me.  But  I  intended  this  a  sober 
letter,  and  therefore,  sans  raillerie,  let  me  tell 
you,  I  have  seriously  considered  all  our  mis- 
fortunes, and  can  see  no  end  of  them  but  by  sub- 
mitting to  that  which  we  cannot  avoid,  and  by 
yielding  to  it  break  the  force  of  a  blow  which  if 
resisted  brings  a  certain  ruin.  I  think  I  need  not 
tell  you  how  dear  you  have  been  to  me,  nor  that 
in  your  kindness  I  placed  all  the  satisfaction  of 
my  life ;  'twas  the  only  happiness  I  proposed  to 
myself,  and  had  set  my  heart  so  much  upon  it 
that  it  was  therefore  made  my  punishment,  to  let 
me  see  that,  how  innocent  soever  I  thought  my 
affection,  it  was  guilty  in  being  greater  than  is 
allowable  for  things  of  this  world.  'Tis  not  a 
melancholy  humour  gives  me  these  apprehensions 
and  inclinations,  nor  the  persuasions  of  others  ; 


Despondency.  197 

'tis  the  result  of  a  long  strife  with  myself,  before 
my  reason  could  overcome  my  passion,  or  bring 
me  to  a  perfect  resignation  to  whatsoever  is 
allotted  for  me.  'Tis  now  done,  I  hope,  and  I 
have  nothing  left  but  to  persuade  you  to  that, 
which  I  assure  myself  your  own  judgment  will 
approve  in  the  end,  and  your  reason  has  often 
prevailed  with  you  to  offer  ;  that  which  you  would 
have  done  then  out  of  kindness  to  me  and  point 
of  honour,  I  would  have  you  do  now  out  of 
wisdom  and  kindness  to  yourself.  Not  that  I 
would  disclaim  my  part  in  it  or  lessen  my  obliga- 
tion to  you,  no,  I  am  your  friend  as  much  as 
ever  I  was  in  my  life,  I  think  more,  and  I  am 
sure  I  shall  never  be  less.  I  have  known  you 
long  enough  to  discern  that  you  have  all  the 
qualities  that  make  an  excellent  friend,  and  I  shall 
endeavour  to  deserve  that  you  may  be  so  to  me ; 
but  I  would  have  you  do  this  upon  the  justest 
grounds,  and  such  as  may  conduce  most  to  your 
quiet  and  future  satisfaction.  When  we  have 
tried  all  ways  to  happiness,  there  is  no  such  thing 
to  be  found  but  in  a  mind  conformed  to  one's 
condition,  whatever  it  be,  and  in  not  aiming  at 
anything  that  is  either  impossible  or  improbable  ; 
all  the  rest  is  but  vanity  and  vexation  of  spirit, 
and  I  durst  pronounce  it  so  from  that  little  know- 
ledge I  have  had  of  the  world,  though  I  had  not 
Scripture  for  my  warrant.  The  shepherd  that 
bragged  to  the  traveller,  who  asked  him,  "  What 
weather  it  was  like  to  be  ? "  that  it  should  be 
what  weather  pleased  him,  and  made  it  good  by 


198  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

saying  it  should  be  what  weather  pleased  God, 
and  what  pleased  God  should  please  him,  said 
an  excellent  thing  in  such  language,  and  knew 
enough  to  make  him  the  happiest  person  in  the 
would  if  he  made  a  right  use  on't.  There  can 
be  no  pleasure  in  a  struggling  life,  and  that  folly 
which  we  condemn  in  an  ambitious  man,  that's 
ever  labouring  for  that  which  is  hardly  got  and 
more  uncertainly  kept,  is  seen  in  all  according  to 
their  several  humours  ;  in  some  'tis  covetousness, 
in  others  pride,  in  some  stubbornness  of  nature 
that  chooses  always  to  go  against  the  tide,  and  in 
others  an  unfortunate  fancy  to  things  that  are  in 
themselves  innocent  till  we  make  them  otherwise 
by  desiring  them  too  much.  Of  this  sort  you  and 
I  are,  I  think  ;  we  have  lived  hitherto  upon  hopes 
so  airy  that  I  have  often  wondered  how  they 
could  support  the  weight  of  our  misfortunes  ;  but 
passion  gives  a  strength  above  nature,  we  see  it  in 
mad  people ;  and,  not  to  flatter  ourselves,  ours  is 
but  a  refined  degree  of  madness.  What  can  it 
be  else  to  be  lost  to  all  things  in  the  world  but 
that  single  object  that  takes  up  one's  fancy,  to 
lose  all  the  quiet  and  repose  of  one's  life  in 
hunting  after  it,  when  there  is  so  little  likelihood 
of  ever  gaining  it,  and  so  many  more  probable 
accidents  that  will  infallibly  make  us  miss  on't  ? 
And  which  is  more  than  all,  'tis  being  mastered 
by  that  which  reason  and  religion  teaches  us  to 
govern,  and  in  that  only  gives  us  a  pre-eminence 
over  beasts.  This,  soberly  consider'd,  is  enough 
to  let  us  see  our  error,  and  consequently  to  per- 


Despondency.  1 99 

suade  us  to  redeem  it.  To  another  person,  I 
should  justify  myself  that  'tis  not  a  lightness  in 
my  nature,  nor  any  interest  that  is  not  common 
to  us  both,  that  has  wrought  this  change  in  me. 
To  you  that  know  my  heart,  and  from  whom  I 
shall  never  hide  it,  to  whom  a  thousand  testi- 
monies of  my  kindness  can  witness  the  reality  of 
it,  and  whose  friendship  is  not  built  upon  common 
grounds,  I  have  no  more  to  say  but  that  I  impose 
not  my  opinions  upon  you,  and  that  I  had  rather 
you  took  them  up  as  your  own  choice  than  upon 
my  entreaty.  But  if,  as  we  have  not  differed  in 
anything  else,  we  could  agree  in  this  too,  and 
resolve  upon  a  friendship  that  will  be  much  the 
perfecter  for  having  nothing  of  passion  in  it, 
how  happy  might  we  be  without  so  much  as  a  fear 
of  the  change  that  any  accident  could  bring.  We 
might  defy  all  that  fortune  could  do,  and  putting 
off  all  disguise  and  constraint,  with  that  which 
only  made  it  necessary,  make  our  lives  as  easy  to 
us  as  the  condition  of  this  world  will  permit.  I 
may  own  you  as  a  person  that  I  extremely  value 
and  esteem,  and  for  whom  I  have  a  particular 
friendship,  and  you  may  consider  me  as  one  that 
will  always  be 

Your  faithful. 

This  was  written  when  I  expected  a  letter  from 
you,  how  came  I  to  miss  it  ?  I  thought  at  first 
it  might  be  the  carrier's  fault  in  changing  his  time 
without  giving  notice,  but  he  assures  me  he  did, 
to  Nan.  My  brother's  groom  came  down  to-day, 


2OO  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

too,  and  saw  her,  he  tells  me,  but  brings  me 
nothing  from  her  ;  if  nothing  of  ill  be  the  cause,  I 
am  contented.  You  hear  the  noise  my  Lady 
Anne  Blunt  has  made  with  her  marrying  ?  I  am 
so  weary  with  meeting  it  in  all  places  where  I 
go ;  from  what  is  she  fallen !  they  talked  but  the 
week  before  that  she  should  have  my  Lord  of 
Strafford.  Did  you  not  intend  to  write  to  me 
when  you  writ  to  Jane  ?  That  bit  of  paper  did 
me  great  service ;  without  it  I  should  have  had 
strange  apprehension,  and  my  sad  dreams,  and 
the  several  frights  I  have  waked  in,  would  have 
run  so  in  my  head  that  I  should  have  concluded 
something  of  very  ill  from  your  silence.  Poor 
Jane  is  sick,  but  she  will  write,  she  says,  if  she 
can.  Did  you  send  the  last  part  of  Cyrus  to  Mr. 
Hollingsworth  ? 

Letter  42. 

SIR, — I  am  extremely  sorry  that  your  letter 
miscarried,  but  I  am  confident  my  brother  has  it 
not.  As  cunning  as  he  is,  he  could  not  hide 
from  me,  but  that  I  should  discover  it  some  way 
or  other.  No ;  he  was  here,  and  both  his  men, 
when  this  letter  should  have  come,  and  not  one 
of  them  stirred  out  that  day ;  indeed,  the  next 
day  they  went  all  to  London.  The  note  you  writ 
to  Jane  came  in  one  of  Nan's,  by  Collins,  but 
nothing  else ;  it  must  be  lost  by  the  porter  that 
was  sent  with  it,  and  'twas  very  unhappy  that 
there  should  be  anything  in  it  of  more  conse- 
quence than  ordinary ;  it  may  be  numbered 


Despondency.  201 

amongst  the  rest  of  our  misfortunes,  all  which  an 
inconsiderate  passion  has  occasioned.  You  must 
pardon  me  I  cannot  be  reconciled  to  it,  it  has 
been  the  ruin  of  us  both.  'Tis  true  that  nobody 
must  imagine  to  themselves  ever  to  be  absolute 
master  on't,  but  there  is  great  difference  betwixt 
that  and  yielding  to  it,  between  striving  with  it 
and  soothing  it  up  till  it  grows  too  strong  for  one. 
Can  I  remember  how  ignorantly  and  innocently 
I  suffered  it  to  steal  upon  me  by  degrees;  how 
under  a  mask  of  friendship  I  cozened  myself 
into  that  which,  had  it  appeared  to  me  at  first  in 
its  true  shape,  I  had  feared  and  shunned  ?  Can 
I  discern  that  it  has  made  the  trouble  of  your 
life,  and  cast  a  cloud  upon  mine,  that  will  help  to 
cover  me  in  my  grave  ?  Can  I  know  that  it 
wrought  so  upon  us  both  as  to  make  neither  of 
us  friends  to  one  another,  but  agree  in  running 
wildly  to  our  own  destruction,  and  that  perhaps  of 
some  innocent  persons  who  might  live  to  curse 
our  folly  that  gave  them  so  miserable  a  being  ? 
Ah  !  if  you  love  yourself  or  me,  you  must  confess 
that  I  have  reason  to  condemn  this  senseless 
passion ;  that  wheresoe'er  it  comes  destroys  all 
that  entertain  it;  nothing  of  judgment  or  discretion 
can  live  with  it,  and  it  puts  everything  else  out  of 
order  before  it  can  find  a  place  for  itself.  What 
has  it  brought  my  poor  Lady  Anne  Blunt  to  ? 
She  is  the  talk  of  all  the  footmen  and  boys  in  the 
street,  and  will  be  company  for  them  shortly,  and 
yet  is  so  blinded  by  her  passion  as  not  at  all  to 
perceive  the  misery  she  has  brought  herself  to ; 


2O2  Letters  from  DorotJiy  Osbornc. 

and  this  fond  love  of  hers  has  so  rooted  all  sense 
of  nature  out  of  her  heart,  that,  they  say,  she  is 
no  more  moved  than  a  statue  with  the  affliction 
of  a  father  and  mother  that  doted  on  her,  and  had 
placed  the  comfort  of  their  lives  in  her  prefer- 
ment. With  all  this  is  it  not  manifest  to  the 
whole  world  that  Mr.  Blunt  could  not  consider 
anything  in  this  action  but  his  own  interest,  and 
that  he  makes  her  a  very  ill  return  for  all  her 
kindness ;  if  he  had  loved  her  truly  he  would 
have  died  rather  than  have  been  the  occasion  of 
this  misfortune  to  her.  My  cousin  Franklin  (as 
you  observe  very  well)  may  say  fine  things  now 
she  is  warm  in  Moor  Park,  but  she  is  very  much 
altered  in  her  opinions  since  her  marriage,  if  these 
be  her  own.  She  left  a  gentleman,  that  I  could 
name,  whom  she  had  much  more  of  kindness  for 
than  ever  she  had  for  Mr.  Franklin,  because  his 
estate  was  less ;  and  upon  the  discovery  of  some 
letters  that  her  mother  intercepted,  suffered  her- 
self to  be  persuaded  that  twenty-three  hundred 
pound  a  year  was  better  than  twelve  hundred, 
though  with  a  person  she  loved  ;  and  has 
recovered  it  so  well,  that  you  see  she'  confesses 
there  is  nothing  in  her  condition  she  desires  to 
alter  at  the  charge  of  a  wish.  She's  happier  by 
much  than  I  shall  ever  be,  but  I  do  not  envy 
her ;  may  she  long  enjoy  it,  and  I  an  early  and 
a  quiet  grave,  free  from  the  trouble  of  this  busy 
world,  where  all  with  passion  pursue  their  own 
interests  at  their  neighbour's  charges ;  where 
nobody  is  pleased  but  somebody  complains  on't ; 


Despondency.  203 

and  where  'tis  impossible  to   be  without  giving 
and  receiving  injuries. 

You  would  know  what  I  would  be  at,  and  how 
I  intend  to  dispose  of  myself.  Alas !  were  I  in 
my  own  disposal,  you  should  come  to  my  grave 
to  be  resolved ;  but  grief  alone  will  not  kill.  All 
that  I  can  say,  then,  is  that  I  resolve  on  nothing 
but  to  arm  myself  with  patience,  to  resist  nothing 
that  is  laid  upon  me,  nor  struggle  for  what  I  have 
no  hope  to  get.  I  have  no  ends  nor  no  designs, 
nor  will  my  heart  ever  be  capable  of  any ;  but  like 
a  country  wasted  by  a  civil  war,  where  two  oppos- 
ing parties  have  disputed  their  right  so  long  till 
they  have  made  it  worth  neither  of  their  con- 
quests, 'tis  ruined  and  desolated  by  the  long 
strife  within  it  to  that  degree  as  'twill  be  useful 
to  none, — nobody  that  knows  the  condition  'tis 
in  will  think  it  worth  the  gaining,  and  I  shall  not 
trouble  anybody  with  it.  No,  really,  if  I  may  be 
permitted  to  desire  anything,  it  shall  be  only  that 
I  may  injure  nobody  but  myself, — I  can  bear 
anything  that  reflects  only  upon  me ;  or,  if  I 
cannot,  I  can  die ;  but  I  would  fain  die  innocent, 
that  I  might  hope  to  be  happy  in  the  next  world, 
though  never  in  this.  I  take  it  a  little  ill  that 
you  should  conjure  me  by  anything,  with  a  belief 
that  'tis  more  powerful  with  me  than  your  kind- 
ness. No,  assure  yourself  what  that  alone  cannot 
gain  will  be  denied  to  all  the  world.  You  would 
see  me,  you  say  ?  You  may  do  so  if  you  please, 
though  I  know  not  to  what  end.  You  deceive 
yourself  if  you  think  it  would  prevail  upon  me 


2O4  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

to  alter  my  intentions ;  besides,  I  can  make  no 
contrivances ;  it  must  be  here,  and  I  must  endure 
the  noise  it  will  make,  and  undergo  the  censures 
of  a  people  that  choose  ever  to  give  the  worst 
interpretation  that  anything  will  bear.  Yet  if 
it  can  be  any  ease  to  you  to  make  me  more 
miserable  than  I  am,  never  spare  me ;  consider 
yourself  only,  and  not  me  at  all, — 'tis  no  more 
than  I  deserve  for  not  accepting  what  you  offered 
me  whilst  'twas  in  your  power  to  make  it  good, 
as  you  say  it  then  was.  You  were  prepared,  it 
seems,  but  I  was  surprised,  I  confess.  'Twas  a 
kind  fault  though ;  and  you  may  pardon  it  with 
more  reason  than  I  have  to  forgive  it  myself. 
And  let  me  tell  you  this,  too,  as  lost  and  as 
wretched  as  I  am,  I  have  still  some  sense  of  my 
reputation  left  in  me, — I  find  that  to  my  cost, — 
I  shall  attempt  to  preserve  it  as  clear  as  I  can ; 
and  to  do  that.  I  must,  if  you  see  me  thus,  make 
it  the  last  of  our  interviews.  What  can  excuse 
me  if  I  should  entertain  any  person  that  is  known 
to  pretend  to  me,  when  I  can  have  no  hope  of 
ever  marrying  him  ?  And  what  hope  can  I  have 
of  that  when  the  fortune  that  can  only  make  it 
possible  to  me  depends  upon  a  thousand  accidents 
and  contingencies,  the  uncertainty  of  the  place  'tis 
in,  and  the  government  it  may  fall  under,  your 
father's  life  or  his  success,  his  disposal  of  himself 
and  of  his  fortune,  besides  the  time  that  must 
necessarily  be  required  to  produce  all  this,  and 
the  changes  that  may  probably  bring  with  it, 
which  'tis  impossible  for  us  to  foresee  ?  All  this 


Despondency.  205 

considered,  what  have  I  to  say  for  myself  when 
people  shall  ask,  what  'tis  I  expect  ?  Can  there 
be  anything  vainer  than  such  a  hope  upon  such 
grounds  ?  You  must  needs  see  the  folly  on't 
yourself,  and  therefore  examine  your  own  heart 
what  'tis  fit  for  me  to  do,  and  what  you  can  do 
for  a  person  you  love,  and  that  deserves  your  com- 
passion if  nothing  else, — a  person  that  will  always 
have  an  inviolable  friendship  for  you,  a  friendship 
that  shall  take  up  all  the  room  my  passion  held 
in  my  heart,  and  govern  there  as  master,  till  death 
come  and  take  possession  and  turn  it  out. 

Why  should  you  make  an  impossibility  where 
there  is  none  ?  A  thousand  accidents  might  have 
taken  me  from  you,  and  you  must  have  borne  it. 
Why  would  not  your  own  resolution  work  as 
much  upon  you  as  necessity  and  time  does  in- 
fallibly upon  people  ?  Your  father  would  take  it 
very  ill,  I  believe,  if  you  should  pretend  to  love 
me  better  than  he  did  my  Lady,  yet  she  is  dead 
and  he  lives,  and  perhaps  may  do  to  love  again. 
There  is  a  gentlewoman  in  this  country  that  loved 
so  passionately  for  six  or  seven  years  that  her 
friends,  who  kept  her  from  marrying,  fearing  her 
death,  consented  to  it;  and  within  half  a  year 
her  husband  died,  which  afflicted  her  so  strongly 
nobody  thought  she  would  have  lived.  She  saw 
no  light  but  candles  in  three  years,  nor  came 
abroad  in  five  ;  and  now  that  'tis  some  nine  years 
past,  she  is  passionately  taken  again  with  another, 
and  how  long  she  has  been  so  nobody  knows  but 
herself.  This  is  to  let  you  see  'tis  not  impossible 


206  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

what  I  ask,  nor  unreasonable.  Think  on't,  and 
attempt  it  at  least ;  but  do  it  sincerely,  and  do  not 
help  your  passion  to  master  you.  As  you  have 
ever  loved  me  do  this. 

The  carrier  shall  bring  your  letters  to  Suffolk 
House  to  Jones.  I  shall  long  to  hear  from  you ; 
but  if  you  should  deny  the  only  hope  that's  left 
me,  I  must  beg  you  will  defer  it  till  Christmas 
Day  be  past ;  for,  to  deal  freely  with  you,  I  have 
some  devotions  to  perform  then,  which  must  not 
be  disturbed  with  anything,  and  nothing  is  like  to 
do  it  as  so  sensible  an  affliction.  Adieu. 

Letter  43. 

SIR, — I  can  say  little  more  than  I  did, — I  am 
convinced  of  the  vileness  of  the  world  and  all 
that's  in  it,  and  that  I  deceived  myself  extremely 
when  I  expected  anything  of  comfort  from  it. 
No,  I  have  no  more  to  do  in't  but  to  grow  every 
day  more  and  more  weary  of  it,  if  it  be  possible 
that  I  have  not  yet  reached  the  highest  degree  of 
hatred  for  it.  But  I  thank  God  I  hate  nothing 
else  but  the  base  world,  and  the  vices  that  make 
a  part  of  it.  I  am  in  perfect  charity  with  my 
enemies,  and  have  compassion  for  all  people's 
misfortunes  as  well  as  for  my  own,  especially  for 
those  I  may  have  caused  ;  and  I  may  truly  say  I 
bear  my  share  of  such.  But  as  nothing  obliges 
me  to  relieve  a  person  that  is  in  extreme  want 
till  I  change  conditions  with  him  and  come  to  be 
where  he  began,  and  that  I  may  be  thought  com- 
passionate if  I  do  all  that  I  can  without  prejudic- 


Despondency.  207 

ing  myself  too  much,  so  let  me  tell  you,  that  if 
1  could  help  it,  I  would  not  love  you,  and  that  as 
long  as  I  live  I  shall  strive  against  it  as  against 
that  which  had  been  my  ruin,  and  was  certainly 
sent  me  as  a  punishment  for  my  sin.  But  I 
shall  always  have  a  sense  of  your  misfortunes, 
equal,  if  not  above,  my  own.  I  shall  pray  that 
you  may  obtain  a  quiet  I  never  hope  for  but  in 
my  grave,  and  I  shall  never  change  my  condition 
but  with  my  life.  Yet  let  not  this  .give  you  a 
hope.  Nothing  ever  can  persuade  me  to  enter 
the  world  again.  I  shall,  in  a  short  time,  have 
disengaged  myself  of  all  my  little  affairs  in  it,  and 
settled  myself  in  a  condition  to  apprehend  nothing 
but  too  long  a  life,  therefore  I  wish  you  would 
forget  me;  and  to  induce  you  to  it,  let  me  tell 
you  freely  that  I  deserve  you  should.  If  I  re- 
member anybody,  'tis  against  my  will.  I  am 
possessed  with  that  strange  insensibility  that  my 
nearest  relations  have  no  tie  upon  me,  and  I  find 
myself  no  more  concerned  in  those  that  I  have 
heretofore  had  great  tenderness  of  affection  for, 
than  in  my  kindred  that  died  long  before  I  was 
born.  Leave  me  to  this,  and  seek  a  better 
fortune.  I  beg  it  of  you  as  heartily  as  I  forgive 
you  all  those  strange  thoughts  you  have  had  of 
me.  Think  me  so  still  if  that  will  do  anything 
towards  it.  For  God's  sake  do  take  any  course 
that  may  make  you  happy ;  or,  if  that  cannot  be, 
less  unfortunate  at  least  than 

Your  friend  and  humble  servant, 

D.  OSBORNE. 


208  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

I  can  hear  nothing  of  that  letter,  but  I  hear 
from  all  people  that  I  know,  part  of  my  unhappy 
story,  and  from  some  that  I  do  not  know.  A 
lady,  whose  face  I  never  saw,  sent  it  me  as  news 
she  had  out  of  Ireland. 

Letter  44. 

SIR, — If  you  have  ever  loved  me,  do  not  refuse 
the  last  request  I  shall  ever  make  you;  'tis  to 
preserve  yourself  from  the  violence  of  your 
passion.  Vent  it  all  upon  me ;  call  me  and 
think  me  what  you  please ;  make  me,  if  it  be 
possible,  more  wretched  than  I  am.  I'll  bear  it 
all  without  the  least  murmur.  Nay,  I  deserve  it 
all,  for  had  you  never  seen  me  you  had  certainly 
been  happy.  'Tis  my  misfortunes  only  that  have 
that  infectious  quality  as  to  strike  at  the  same 
time  me  and  all  that's  dear  to  me.  I  am  the 
most  unfortunate  woman  breathing,  but  I  was 
never  false.  No ;  I  call  heaven  to  witness  that 
if  my  life  could  satisfy  for  the  least  injury  my 
fortune  has  done  you  (I  cannot  say  'twas  I  that 
did  them  you),  I  would  lay  it  down  with  greater 
joy  than  any  person  ever  received  a  crown ;  and 
if  I  ever  forget  what  I  owe  you,  or  ever  enter- 
tained a  thought  of  kindness  for  any  person  in 
the  world  besides,  may  I  live  a  long  and  miserable 
life.  'Tis  the  greatest  curse  I  can  invent ;  if  there 
be  a  greater,  may  I  feel  it.  This  is  all  I  can  say. 
Tell  me  if  it  be  possible  I  can  do  anything  for 
you,  and  tell  me  how  I  may  deserve  your  pardon 


Despondency.  209 

for  all  the  trouble  I  have  given  you.     I  would 
not  die  without  it. 

[Directed.]     For  Mr.  Temple. 

Letter  45. 

SIR, — 'Tis  most  true  what  you  say,  that  few 
have  what  they  merit ;  if  it  were  otherwise,  you 
would  be  happy,  I  think,  but  then  I  should  be  so 
too,  and  that  must  not  be, — a  false  and  an  incon- 
stant person  cannot  merit  it,  I  am  sure.  You  are 
kind  in  your  good  wishes,  but  I  aim  at  no  friends 
nor  no  princes,  the  honour  would  be  lost  upon  me  ; 
I  should  become  a  crown  so  ill,  there  would  be  no 
striving  for  it  after  me,  and,  sure,  I  should  not  wear 
it  long.  Your  letter  was  a  much  greater  loss  to 
me  than  that  of  Henry  Cromwell,  and,  therefore, 
'tis  that  with  all  my  care  and  diligence  I  can- 
not inquire  it  out.  You  will  not  complain,  I 
believe,  of  the  shortness  of  my  last,  whatever  else 
you  dislike  in  it,  and  if  I  spare  you  at  any  time 
'tis  because  I  cannot  but  imagine,  since  I  am  so 
wearisome  to  myself,  that  I  must  needs  be  so  to 
everybody  else,  though,  at  present,  I  have  other 
occasions  that  will  not  permit  this  to  be  a  long 
one.  I  am  sorry  it  should  be  only  in  my  power 
to  make  a  friend  miserable,  and  that  where  I 
have  so  great  a  kindness  I  should  do  so  great 
injuries  ;  but  'tis  my  fortune,  and  I  must  bear  it ; 
'twill  be  none  to  you,  I  hope,  to  pray  for  you,  nor 
to  desire  that  you  would  (all  passion  laid  aside) 
freely  tell  me  my  faults,  that  I  may,  at  least,  ask 

o 


2io  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne, 

your  forgiveness  where  'tis  not  in  my  power  to 
make  you  better  satisfaction.  I  would  fain  make 
even  with  all  the  world,  and  be  out  of  danger  of 
dying  in  anybody's  debt;  then  I  have  nothing 
more  to  do  in  it  but  to  expect  when  I  shall  be 
so  happy  as  to  leave  it,  and  always  to  remember 
that  my  misfortune  makes  all  my  faults  towards 
you,  and  that  my  faults  to  God  make  all  my 
misfortunes. 

Your  unhappy. 

Letter  46. 

SIR, — That  which  I  writ  by  your  boy  was  in 
so  much  haste  and  distraction  as  I  cannot  be 
satisfied  with  it,  nor  believe  it  has  expressed  my 
thoughts  as  I  meant  them.  No,  I  find  it  is  not 
easily  done  at  more  leisure,  and  I  am  yet  to  seek 
what  to  say  that  is  not  too  little  nor  too  much. 
I  would  fain  let  you  see  that  I  am  extremely 
sensible  of  your  affliction,  that  I  would  lay  down 
my  life  to  redeem  you  from  it,  but  that's  a  mean 
expression ;  my  life  is  of  so  little  value  that  I  will 
not  mention  it.  No,  let  it  be  rather  what,  in 
earnest,  if  I  can  tell  anything  I  have  left  that  is 
considerable  enough  to  expose  for  it,  it  must  be 
that  small  reputation  I  have  amongst  my  friends, 
that's  all  my  wealth,  and  that  I  could  part  with 
to  restore  you  to  that  quiet  you  lived  in  when 
I  first  knew  you.  But,  on  the  other  side,  I  would 
not  give  you  hopes  of  that  I  cannot  do.  If  I 
loved  you  less  I  would  allow  you  to  be  the  same 


Despondency.  2 1 1 

person  to  me,  and  I  would  be  the  same  to  you 
as  heretofore.  But  to  deal  freely  with  you,  that 
were  to  betray  myself,  and  I  find  that  my  passion 
would  quickly  be  my  master  again  if  I  gave  it 
any  liberty.  I  am  not  secure  that  it  would  not 
make  me  do  the  most  extravagant  things  in  the 
world,  and  I  shall  be  forced  to  keep  a  continual 
war  alive  with  it  as  long  as  there  are  any  re- 
mainders of  it  left ; — I  think  I  might  as  well  have 
said  as  long  as  I  lived.  Why  should  you  give 
yourself  over  so  unreasonably  to  it  ?  Good  God  ! 
no  woman  breathing  can  deserve  half  the  trouble 
you  give  yourself.  If  I  were  yours  from  this 
minute  I  could  not  recompense  what  you  have 
suffered  from  the  violence  of  your  passion,  though 
I  were  all  that  you  can  imagine  me,  when,  God 
knows,  I  am  an  inconsiderable  person,  born  to  a 
thousand  misfortunes,  which  have  taken  away  all 
sense  of  anything  else  from  me,  and  left  me  a 
walking  misery  only.  I  do  from  my  soul  forgive 
you  all  the  injuries  your  passion  has  done  me, 
though,  let  me  tell  you,  I  was  much  more  at 
my  ease  whilst  I  was  angry.  Scorn  and  despite 
would  have  cured  me  in  some  reasonable  time, 
which  I  despair  of  now.  However,  I  am  not 
displeased  with  it,  and,  if  it  may  be  of  any 
advantage  to  you,  I  shall  not  consider  myself  in 
it ;  but  let  me  beg,  then,  that  you  will  leave  off 
those  dismal  thoughts.  I  tremble  at  the  desperate 
things  you  say  in  your  letter ;  for  the  love  of  God, 
consider  seriously  with  yourself  what  can  enter 
into  comparison  with  the  safety  of  your  soul. 


212  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

Are  a  thousand  women,  or  ten  thousand  worlds, 
worth  it  ?  No,  you  cannot  have  so  little  reason 
left  as  you  pretend,  nor  so  little  religion.  For 
God's  sake  let  us  not  neglect  what  can  only 
make  us  happy  for  trifles.  If  God  had  seen  it 
fit  to  have  satisfied  our  desires  we  should  have 
had  them,  and  everything  would  not  have  con- 
spired thus  to  have  crossed  them.  Since  He  has 
decreed  it  otherwise  (at  least  as  far  as  we  are 
able  to  judge  by  events),  we  must  submit,  and 
not  by  striving  make  an  innocent  passion  a  sin, 
and  show  a  childish  stubbornness. 

I  could  say  a  thousand  things  more  to  this 
purpose  if  I  were  not  in  haste  to  send  this  away, 
— that  it  may  come  to  you,  at  least,  as  soon  as 
the  other.  Adieu. 

I  cannot  imagine  who  this  should  be  that  Mr. 
Dr.  meant,  and  am  inclined  to  believe  'twas  a 
story  meant  to  disturb  you,  though  perhaps  not 
by  him. 

Letter  47. 

SIR, — 'Tis  never  my  humour  to  do  injuries,  nor 
was  this  meant  as  any  to  you.  No,  in  earnest,  if 
I  could  have  persuaded  you  to  have  quitted  a 
passion  that  injures  you,  I  had  done  an  act  of 
real  friendship,  and  you  might  have  lived  to 
thank  me  for  it ;  but  since  it  cannot  be,  I  will 
attempt  it  no  more.  I  have  laid  before  you  the 
inconveniences  it  brings  along,  how  certain  the 
trouble  is,  and  how  uncertain  the  reward ;  how 
many  accidents  may  hinder  us  from  ever  being 


Despondency.  2 1 3 

happy,  and  how  few  there  are  (and  those  so 
unlikely)  to  make  up  our  desire.  All  this  makes 
no  impression  on  you ;  you  are  still  resolved  to 
follow  your  blind  guide,  and  I  to  pity  where  I 
cannot  help.  It  will  not  be  amiss  though  to  let 
you  see  that  what  I  did  was  merely  in  considera- 
tion of  your  interest,  and  not  at  all  of  my  own, 
that  you  may  judge  of  me  accordingly ;  and,  to 
do  that,  I  must  tell  you  that,  unless  it  were  after 
the  receipt  of  those  letters  that  made  me  angry, 
I  never  had  the  least  hope  of  wearing  out  my 
passion,  nor,  to  say  truth,  much  desire.  For  to 
what  purpose  should  I  have  strived  against  it  ? 
'Twas  innocent  enough  in  me  that  resolved  never 
to  marry,  and  would  have  kept  me  company  in 
this  solitary  place  as  long  as  I  lived,  without 
being  a  trouble  to  myself  or  anybody  else.  Nay, 
in  earnest,  if  I  could  have  hoped  you  would  be  so 
much  your  own  friend  as  to  seek  out  a  happiness 
in  some  other  person,  nothing  under  heaven  could 
have  satisfied  me  like  entertaining  myself  with 
the  thought  of  having  done  you  service  in  divert- 
ing you  from  a  troublesome  pursuit  of  what  is  so 
uncertain,  and  by  that  giving  you  the  occasion  of 
a  better  fortune.  Otherwise,  whether  you  loved 
me  still,  or  whether  you  did  not,  was  equally  the 
same  to  me,  your  interest  set  aside.  I  will  not 
reproach  you  how  ill  an  interpretation  you  made 
of  this,  because  we  will  have  no  more  quarrels. 
On  the  contrary,  because  I  see  'tis  in  vain  to  think 
of  curing  you,  I'll  study  only  to  give  you  what 
ease  I  can,  and  leave  the  rest  to  better  physicians, 


214  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

— to  time  and  fortune.  Here,  then,  I  declare  that 
you  have  still  the  same  power  in  my  heart  that 
I  gave  you  at  our  last  parting ;  that  I  will  never 
marry  any  other ;  and  that  if  ever  our  fortunes 
will  allow  us  to  marry,  you  shall  dispose  of  me  as 
you  please ;  but  this,  to  deal  freely  with  you,  I  do 
not  hope  for.  No  ;  'tis  too  great  a  happiness,  and 
I,  that  know  myself  best,  must  acknowledge  I 
deserve  crosses  and  afflictions,  but  can  never 
merit  such  a  blessing.  You  know  'tis  not  a  fear 
of  want  that  frights  me.  I  thank  God  I  never 
distrusted  His  providence,  nor  I  hope  never  shall, 
and  without  attributing  anything  to  myself,  I 
may  acknowledge  He  has  given  me  a  mind  that 
can  be  satisfied  with  as  narrow  a  compass  as  that 
of  any  person  living  of  my  rank.  But  I  confess 
that  I  have  an  humour  will  not  suffer  me  to  ex- 
pose myself  to  people's  scorn.  The  name  of  love 
is  grown  so  contemptible  by  the  folly  of  such  as 
have  falsely  pretended  to  it,  and  so  many  giddy 
people  have  married  upon  that  score  and  re- 
pented so  shamefully  afterwards,  that  nobody  can 
do  anything  that  tends  towards  it  without  being 
esteemed  a  ridiculous  person.  Now,  as  my  young 
Lady  Holland  says,  I  never  pretended  to  wit  in 
my  life,  but  I  cannot  be  satisfied  that  the  world 
should  think  me  a  fool,  so  that  all  I  can  do  for 
you  will  be  to  preserve  a  constant  kindness  for 
you,  which  nothing  shall  ever  alter  or  diminish ; 
I'll  never  give  you  any  more  alarms,  by  going 
about  to  persuade  you  against  that  you  have  for 
me ;  but  from  this  hour  we'll  live  quietly,  no  more 


Despondency.  215 

fears,  no  more  jealousies ;  the  wealth  of  the  whole 
world,  by  the  grace  of  God,  shall  not  tempt  me 
to  break  my  word  with  you,  nor  the  importunity 
of  all  my  friends  I  have.  Keep  this  as  a  testi- 
mony against  me  if  ever  I  do,  and  make  me  a 
reproach  to  them  by  it ;  therefore  be  secure,  and 
rest  satisfied  with  what  I  can  do  for  you. 

You  should  come  hither  but  that  I  expect  my 
brother  every  day;  not  but  that  he  designed  a  longer 
stay  when  he  went,  but  since  he  keeps  his  horses 
with  him  'tis  an  infallible  token  that  he  is  coming. 
We  cannot  miss  fitter  times  than  this  twenty  in  a 
year,  and  I  shall  be  as  ready  to  give  you  notice  of 
such  as  you  can  be  to  desire  it,  only  you  would 
do  me  a  great  pleasure  if  you  could  forbear  writ- 
ing, unless  it  were  sometimes  on  great  occasions. 
This  is  a  strange  request  for  me  to  make,  that 
have  been  fonder  of  your  letters  than  my  Lady 
Protector  is  of  her  new  honour,  and,  in  earnest, 
would  be  so  still  but  there  are  a  thousand  incon- 
veniences in't  that  I  could  tell  you.  Tell  me 
what  you  can  do ;  in  the  meantime  think  of  some 
employment  for  yourself  this  summer.  Who 
knows  what  a  year  may  produce  ?  If  nothing, 
we  are  but  where  we  were,  and  nothing  can 
hinder  us  from  being,  at  least,  perfect  friends. 
Adieu.  There's  nothing  so  terrible  in  my  other 
letter  but  you  may  venture  to  read  it.  Have  not 
you  forgot  my  Lady's  book  ? 


CHAPTER    V. 

THE    LAST    OF    CHICKSANDS.       FEBRUARY   AND 
MARCH    1654. 

THE  quarrel  is  over,  happily  over,  and  Dorothy  and 
Temple  are  more  than  reconciled  again.  Temple  has 
been  down  to  Chicksands  to  see  her,  and  some  more 
definite  arrangement  has  been  come  to  between  them. 
Dorothy  has  urged  Temple  to  go  to  Ireland  and  join 
his  father,  who  has  once  again  taken  possession  of  his 
office  of  Master  of  the  Rolls.  As  soon  as  an  appointment 
can  be  found  for  Temple  they  are  to  be  married — that 
is,  as  far  as  one  can  gather,  the  state  of  affairs  between 
them ;  but  it  would  seem  as  if  nothing  of  this  was 
as  yet  to  be  known  to  the  outer  world,  not  even  to 
Dorothy's  brother. 

Letter  48. 

SIR, — 'Tis  but  an  hour  since  you  went,  and  I  am 
writing  to  you  already  ;  is  not  this  kind  ?  How 
do  you  after  your  journey;  are  you  not  weary;  do 
you  not  repent  that  you  took  it  to  so  little  pur- 
pose ?  Well,  God  forgive  me,  and  you  too,  you 
made  me  tell  a  great  lie.  I  was  fain  to  say  you 
came  only  to  take  your  leave  before  you  went 
abroad ;  and  all  this  not  only  to  keep  quiet,  but 
to  keep  him  from  playing  the  madman ;  for  when 


The  Last  of  Chicksands.  2 1 7 

he  has  the  least  suspicion,  he  carries  it  so  strangely 
that  all  the  world  takes  notice  on't,  and  so  often 
guess  at  the  reason,  or  else  he  tells  it.  Now,  do 
but  you  judge  whether  if  by  mischance  he  should 
discover  the  truth,  whether  he  would  not  rail  most 
sweetly  at  me  (and  with  some  reason)  for  abusing 
him.  Yet  you  helped  to  do  it ;  a  sadness  that  he 
discovered  at  your  going  away  inclined  him  to 
believe  you  were  ill  satisfied,  and  made  him  credit 
what  I  said.  He  is  kind  now  in  extremity,  and  I 
would  be  glad  to  keep  him  so  till  a  discovery  is 
absolutely  necessary.  Your  going  abroad  will 
confirm  him  much  in  his  belief,  and  I  shall 
have  nothing  to  torment  me  in  this  place  but  my 
own  doubts  and  fears.  Here  I  shall  find  all  the 
repose  I  am  capable  of,  and  nothing  will  disturb 
my  prayers  and  wishes  for  your  happiness  which 
only  can  make  mine.  Your  journey  cannot  be 
to  your  disadvantage  neither ;  you  must  needs 
be  pleased  to  visit  a  place  you  are  so  much  con- 
cerned in,  and  to  be  a  witness  yourself  of 
your  hopes,  though  I  will  believe  you  need  no 
other  inducements  to  this  voyage  than  my 
desiring  it.  I  know  you  love  me,  and  you 
have  no  reason  to  doubt  my  kindness.  Let  us 
both  have  patience  to  wait  what  time  and  fortune 
will  do  for  us ;  they  cannot  hinder  our  being 
perfect  friends. 

Lord,  there  were  a  thousand  things  I  remem- 
bered after  you  were  gone  that  I  should  have  said, 
and  now  I  am  to  write  not  one  of  them  will  come 
into  my  head.  Sure  as  I  live  it  is  not  settled  yet ! 


2i8  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

Good  God !  the  fears  and  surprises,  the  crosses 
and  disorders  of  that  day,  'twas  confused  enough 
to  be  a  dream,  and  I  am  apt  to  think  sometimes 
it  was  no  more.  But  no,  I  saw  you ;  when  I 
shall  do  it  again,  God  only  knows !  Can  there  be 
a  romancer  story  than  ours  would  make  if  the 
conclusion  prove  happy  ?  Ah !  I  dare  not  hope 
it ;  something  that  I  cannot  describe  draws  a 
cloud  over  all  the  light  my  fancy  discovers  some- 
times, and  leaves  me  so  in  the  dark  with  all  my 
fears  about  me  that  I  tremble  to  think  on't.  But 
no  more  of  this  sad  talk. 

Who  was  that,  Mr.  Dr.  told  you  I  should 
marry  ?  I  cannot  imagine  for  my  life  ;  tell  me,  or 
I  shall  think  you  made  it  to  excuse  yourself.  Did 
not  you  say  once  you  knew  where  good  French 
tweezers  were  to  be  had  ?  Pray  send  me  a  pair ; 
they  shall  cut  no  love.  Before  you  go  I  must 
have  a  ring  from  you,  too,  a  plain  gold  one ;  if  I 
ever  marry  it  shall  be  my  wedding  ring ;  when  I 
die  I'll  give  it  you  again.  What  a  dismal  story 
this  is  you  sent  me ;  but  who  could  expect  better 
from  a  love  begun  upon  such  grounds  ?  I  cannot 
pity  neither  of  them,  they  were  both  so  guilty. 
Yes,  they  are  the  more  to  be  pitied  for  that. 

Here  is  a  note  comes  to  me  just  now,  will  you 
do  this  service  for  a  fine  lady  that  is  my  friend  ; 
have  not  I  taught  her  well,  she  writes  better  than 
her  mistress  ?  How  merry  and  pleased  she  is 
with  her  marrying  because  there  is  a  plentiful 
fortune ;  otherwise  she  would  not  value  the  man 
at  all.  This  is  the  world  ;  would  you  and  I  were 


The  Last  of  Chicksands.  219 

out  of  it :  for,  sure,  we  were  not  made  to  live  in 
it.  Do  you  remember  Arme  and  the  little  house 
there  ?  Shall  we  go  thither  ?  that's  next  to  being 
out  of  the  world.  There  we  might  live  like 
Baucis  and  Philemon,  grow  old  together  in  our 
little  cottage,  and  for  our  chanty  to  some  ship- 
wrecked strangers  obtain  the  blessing  of  dying 
both  at  the  same  time.  How  idly  I  talk  ;  'tis 
because  the  story  pleases  me — none  in  Ovid  so 
much.  I  remember  I  cried  when  I  read  it.  Me- 
thought  they  were  the  perfectest  characters  of  a 
contented  marriage,  where  piety  and  love  were 
all  their  wealth,  and  in  their  poverty  feasted  the 
gods  when  rich  men  shut  them  out.  I  am  called 
away, — farewell ! 

Your  faithful. 

Letter  49. — The  beginning  of  this  letter  is  lost,  and 
with  it,  perhaps,  the  name  of  Dorothy's  lover  who  had 
written  some  verses  on  her  beauty.  However,  we  have 
the  "  tag  "  of  them,  with  which  we  must  rest  content. 

.  .  .  'Tis  pity  I  cannot  show  you  what  his  wit 
could  do  upon  so  ill  a  subject,  but  my  Lady 
Ruthin  keeps  them  to  abuse  me  withal,  and  has 
put  a  tune  to  them  that  I  may  hear  them  all 
manner  of  ways ;  and  yet  I  do  protest  I  remember 
nothing  more  of  them  than  this  lame  piece, — 

A  stately  and  majestic  brow, 

Of  force  to  make  Protectors  bow. 

Indeed,  if  I  have  any  stately  looks  I  think  he  has 
seen  them,  but  yet  it  seems  they  could  not  keep 


220  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

him  from  playing  the  fool.  My  Lady  Grey  told 
me  that  one  day  talking  of  me  to  her  (as  he  would 
find  ways  to  bring  in  that  discourse  by  the  head 
and  shoulders,  whatsoever  anybody  else  could 
interpose),  he  said  he  wondered  I  did  not  marry. 
She  (that  understood  him  well  enough,  but  would 
not  seem  to  do  so)  said  she  knew  not,  unless  it 
were  that  I  liked  my  present  condition  so  well 
that  I  did  not  care  to  change  it ;  which  she  was 
apt  to  believe,  because  to  her  knowledge  I  had 
refused  very  good  fortunes,  and  named  some  so 
far  beyond  his  reach,  that  she  thought  she  had 
dashed  all  his  hopes.  But  he,  confident  still,  said 
'twas  perhaps  that  I  had  no  fancy  to  their  persons 
(as  if  his  own  were  so  taking),  that  I  was  to  be 
looked  upon  as  one  that  had  it  in  my  power  to 
please  myself,  and  that  perhaps  in  a  person  I 
liked  would  bate  something  of  fortune.  To  this 
my  Lady  answered  again  for  me,  that  'twas  not 
impossible  but  I  might  do  so,  but  in  that  point 
she  thought  me  nice  and  curious  enough.  And 
still  to  dishearten  him  the  more,  she  took  occa- 
sion (upon  his  naming  some  gentlemen  of  the 
county  that  had  been  talked  of  heretofore  as  of 
my  servants,  and  are  since  disposed  of)  to  say 
(very  plainly)  that  'twas  true  they  had  some  of 
them  pretended,  but  there  was  an  end  of  my 
Bedfordshire  servants  she  was  sure  there  were 
no  more  that  could  be  admitted  into  the  number. 
After  all  this  (which  would  have  satisfied  an 
ordinary  young  man)  did  I  this  last  Thursday 
receive  a  letter  from  him  by  Collins,  which  he 


The  Last  of  Chicksands.  2  2 1 

sent  first  to  London  that  it  might  come  from 
thence  to  me.  I  threw  it  into  the  fire ;  and  do 
you  but  keep  my  counsel,  nobody  shall  ever  know 
that  I  had  it ;  and  my  gentleman  shall  be  kept 
at  such  a  distance  as  I  hope  to  hear  no  more  of 
him.  Yet  I'll  swear  of  late  I  have  used  him  so 
near  to  rudely  that  there  is  little  left  for  me  to  do. 
Fye !  what  a  deal  of  paper  I  have  spent  upon  this 
idle  fellow  ;  if  I  had  thought  his  story  would  have 
proved  so  long  you  should  have  missed  on't,  and 
the  loss  would  not  have  been  great. 

I  have  not  thanked  you  yet  for  my  tweezers 
and  essences ;  they  are  both  very  good.  I  kept 
one  of  the  little  glasses  myself;  remember  my 
ring,  and  in  return,  if  I  go  to  London  whilst  you 
are  in  Ireland,  I'll  have  my  picture  taken  in  little 
and  send  it  you.  The  sooner  you  despatch  away 
will  be  the  better,  I  think,  since  I  have  no  hopes 
of  seeing  you  before  you  go ;  there  lies  all  your 
business,  your  father  and  fortune  must  do  all  the 
rest.  I  cannot  be  more  yours  than  I  am.  You 
are  mistaken  if  you  think  I  stand  in  awe  of  my 
brother.  No,  I  fear  nobody's  anger.  I  am  proof 
against  all  violence;  but  when  people  haunt  me 
with  reasoning  and  entreaties,  when  they  look  sadly 
and  pretend  kindness,  when  they  beg  upon  that 
score,  'tis  a  strange  pain  to  me  to  deny.  When 
he  rants  and  renounces  me,  I  can  despise  him ; 
but  when  he  asks  my  pardon,  with  tears  pleads 
to  me  the  long  and  constant  friendship  between 
us,  and  calls  heaven  to  witness  that  nothing 
upon  earth  is  dear  to  him  in  comparison  of  me, 


222  Letters  from  Dorothy  Os  borne. 

then,  I  confess,  I  feel  a  stronger  unquietness 
within  me,  and  I  would  do  anything  to  evade  his 
importunity.  Nothing  is  so  great  a  violence  to 
me  as  that  which  moves  my  compassion.  I  can 
resist  with  ease  any  sort  of  people  but  beggars. 
If  this  be  a  fault  in  me,  'tis  at  least  a  well-natured 
one ;  and  therefore  I  hope  you  will  forgive  it 
me,  you  that  can  forgive  me  anything,  you  say, 
and  be  displeased  with  nothing  whilst  I  love 
you ;  may  I  never  be  pleased  with  anything  when 
I  do  not.  Yet  I  could  beat  you  for  writing  this 
last  strange  letter ;  was  there  ever  anything  said 
like  ?  If  I  had  but  a  vanity  that  the  world 
should  admire  me,  I  would  not  care  what  they 
talked  of  me.  In  earnest,  I  believe  there  is 
nobody  displeased  that  people  speak  well  of  them, 
and  reputation  is  esteemed  by  all  of  much  greater 
value  than  life  itself.  Yet  let  me  tell  you  soberly, 
that  with  all  my  vanity  I  could  be  very  well 
contented  nobody  should  blame  me  or  any  action 
of  mine,  to  quit  all  my  part  of  the  praises  and 
admiration  of  the  world ;  and  if  I  might  be 
allowed  to  choose,  my  happiest  part  of  it  should 
consist  in  concealment,  there  should  not  be  above 
two  persons  in  the  world  know  that  there  was 
such  a  one  in  it  as  your  faithful. 

Stay !  I  have  not  done  yet.  Here's  another 
good  side,  I  find;  here,  then,  I'll  tell  you  that 
I  am  not  angry  for  all  this.  No,  I  allow  it  to 
your  ill-humour,  and  that  to  the  crosses  that  have 
been  common  to  us ;  but  now  that  is  cleared  up, 
I  should  expect  you  should  say  finer  things  to  me. 


The  Last  of  Chicksands.  223 

Yet  take  heed  of  being  like  my  neighbour's 
servant,  he  is  so  transported  to  find  no  rubs  in 
his  way  that  he  knows  not  whether  he  stands  on 
his  head  or  his  feet.  'Tis  the  most  troublesome, 
busy  talking  little  thing  that  ever  was  born ;  his 
tongue  goes  like  the  clack  of  a  mill,  but  to  much 
less  purpose,  though  if  it  were  all  oracle,  my 
head  would  ache  to  hear  that  perpetual  noise.  I 
admire  at  her  patience  and  her  resolution  that  can 
laugh  at  his  fooleries  and  love  his  fortune.  You 
would  wonder  to  see  how  tired  she  is  with  his 
impertinences,  and  yet  how  pleased  to  think  she 
shall  have  a  great  estate  with  him.  But  this  is 
the  world,  and  she  makes  a  part  of  it  betimes. 
Two  or  three  great  glistening  jewels  have  bribed 
her  to  wink  at  all  his  faults,  and  she  hears  him 
as  unmoved  and  unconcerned  as  if  another  were 
to  marry  him. 

What  think  you,  have  I  not  done  fair  for  once, 
would  you  wish  a  longer  letter  ?  See  how  kind 
I  grow  at  parting  ;  who  would  not  go  into  Ireland 
to  have  such  another?  In  earnest  now,  go  as 
soon  as  you  can,  'twill  be  the  better,  I  think,  who 
am  your  faithful  friend. 

Letter  50. — Wrest,  in  Bedfordshire,  where  Dorothy 
met  her  importunate  lover,  was  the  seat  of  Anthony 
Grey,  Earl  of  Kent  There  is  said  to  be  a  picture  there 
of  Sir  William  Temple,  —  a  copy  of  Lely's  picture. 
Wrest  Park  is  only  a  few  miles  from  Chicksands. 

SIR,  —  Who  would  be  kind  to  one  that 
reproaches  one  so  cruelly  ?  Do  you  think,  in 


224  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

earnest,  I  could  be  satisfied  the  world  should 
think  me  a  dissembler,  full  of  avarice  or  ambition  ? 
No,  you  are  mistaken ;  but  I'll,  tell  you  what  I 
could  suffer,  that  they  should  say  I  married  where 
I  had  no  inclination,  because  my  friends  thought 
it  fit,  rather  than  that  I  had  run  wilfully  to  my 
own  ruin  in  pursuit  of  a  fond  passion  of  my  own. 
To  marry  for  love  were  no  reproachful  thing  if 
we  did  not  see  that  of  the  thousand  couples  that 
do  it,  hardly  one  can  be  brought  for  an  example 
that  it  may  be  done  and  not  repented  afterwards. 
Is  there  anything  thought  so  indiscreet,  or  that 
makes  one  more  contemptible  ?  'Tis  true  that  I 
do  firmly  believe  we  should  be,  as  you  say, 
toujours  les  mesmes ;  but  if  (as  you  confess)  'tis 
that  which  hardly  happens  once  in  two  ages, 
we  are  not  to  expect  the  world  should  discern 
we  were  not  like  the  rest.  I'll  tell  you  stories 
another  time,  you  return  them  so  handsomely  upon 
me.  Well,  the  next  servant  I  tell  you  of  shall 
not  be  called  a  whelp,  if  'twere  not  to  give  you  a 
stick  to  beat  myself  with.  I  would  confess  that 
I  looked  upon  the  impudence  of  this  fellow  as  a 
punishment  upon  me  for  my  over  care  in  avoiding 
the  talk  of  the  world ;  yet  the  case  is  very 
different,  and  no  woman  shall  ever  be  blamed 
that  an  inconsolable  person  pretends  to  her  when 
she  gives  no  allowance  to  it,  whereas  none  shall 
'scape  that  owns  a  passion,  though  in  return  of  a 
person  much  above  her.  The  little  tailor  that 
loved  Queen  Elizabeth  was  suffered  to  talk  out, 
and  none  of  her  Council  thought  it  necessary  to 


The  Last  of  Chicksands.  225 

stop  his  mouth ;  but  the  Queen  of  Sweden's  kind 
letter  to  the  King  of  Scots  was  intercepted  by  her 
own  ambassador,  because  he  thought  it  was  not 
for  his  mistress's  honour  (at  least  that  was  his 
pretended  reason),  and  thought  justifiable  enough. 
But  to  come  to  my  Beagle  again.  I  have  heard 
no  more  of  him,  though  I  have  seen  him  since ; 
we  met  at  Wrest  again.  I  do  not  doubt  but  I  shall 
be  better  able  to  resist  his  importunity  than  his 
tutor  was ;  but  what  do  you  think  it  is  that  gives 
him  his  encouragement  ?  He  was  told  I  had 
thought  of  marrying  a  gentleman  that  had  not 
above  two  hundred  pound  a  year,  only  out  of  my 
liking  to  his.  person.  And  upon  that  score  his 
vanity  allows  him  to  think  he  may  pretend  as  far 
as  another.  Thus  you  see  'tis  not  altogether 
without  reason  that  I  apprehend  the  noise  of  the 
world,  since  'tis  so  much  to  my  disadvantage. 

Is  it  in  earnest  that  you  say  your  being  there 
keeps  me  from  the  town  ?  If  so,  'tis  very  unkind. 
No,  if  I  had  gone,  it  had  been  to  have  waited  on 
my  neighbour,  who  has  now  altered  her  resolution 
and  goes  not  herself.  I  have  no  business  there, 
and  am  so  little  taken  with  the  place  that  I  could 
sit  here  seven  years  without  so  much  as  thinking 
once  of  going  to  it.  'Tis  not  likely,  as  you  say, 
that  you  should  much  persuade  your  father  to 
what  you  do  not  desire  he  should  do ;  but  it  is 
hard  if  all  the  testimonies  of  my  kindness  are  not 
enough  to  satisfy  without  my  publishing  to  the 
world  that  I  can  forget  my  friends  and  all  my 
interest  to  follow  my  passion ;  though,  perhaps, 

P 


226  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

it  will  admit  of  a  good  sense,  'tis  that  which 
nobody  but  you  or  I  will  give  it,  and  we  that  are 
concerned  in't  can  only  say  'twas  an  act  of  great 
kindness  and  something  romance,  but  must  confess 
it  had  nothing  of  prudence,  discretion,  nor  sober 
counsel  in't.  'Tis  not  that  I  expect,  by  all  your 
father's  offers,  to  bring  my  friends  to  approve  it. 
I  don't  deceive  myself  thus  far,  but  I  would  not 
give  them  occasion  to  say  that  I  hid  myself  from 
them  in  the  doing  it ;  nor  of  making  my  action 
appear  more  indiscreet  than  it  is.  It  will  concern 
me  that  all  the  world  should  know  what  fortune 
you  have,  and  upon  what  terms  I  marry  you,  that 
both  may  not  be  made  to  appear  ten  times  worse 
than  they  are.  'Tis  the  general  custom  of  all 
people  to  make  those  that  are  rich  to  have  more 
mines  of  gold  than  are  in  the  Indies,  and  such  as 
have  small  fortunes  to  be  beggars.  If  an  action 
take  a  little  in  the  world,  it  shall  be  magnified 
and  brought  into  comparison  with  what  the  heroes 
or  senators  of  Rome  performed ;  but,  on  the 
contrary,  if  it  be  once  condemned,  nothing  can  be 
found  ill  enough  to  compare  it  with  ;  and  people 
are  in  pain  till  they  find  out  some  extravagant 
expression  to  represent  the  folly  on't.  Only  there 
is  this  difference,  that  as  all  are  more  forcibly 
inclined  to  ill  than  good,  they  are  much  apter  to 
exceed  in  detraction  than  in  praises.  Have  I 
not  reason  then  to  desire  this  from  you ;  and  may 
not  my  friendship  have  deserved  it  ?  I  know 
not ;  'tis  as  you  think ;  but  if  I  be  denied  it,  you 
will  teach  me  to  consider  myself.  'Tis  well  the 


The  Last  of  Chicksands.  227 

side  ended  here.  If  I  had  not  had  occasion  to 
stop  there,  I  might  have  gone  too  far,  and  showed 
that  I  had  more  passions  than  one.  Yet  'tis  fit 
you  should  know  all  my  faults,  lest  you  should 
repent  your  bargain  when  'twill  not  be  in  your 
power  to  release  yourself;  besides,  I  may  own 
my  ill-humour  to  you  that  cause  it ;  'tis  the  dis- 
content my  crosses  in  this  business  have  given 
me  makes  me  thus  peevish.  Though  I  say  it 
myself,  before  I  knew  you  I  was  thought  as  well 
an  humoured  young  person  as  most  in  England ; 
nothing  displeased,  nothing  troubled  me.  When 
I  came  out  of  France,  nobody  knew  me  again. 
I  was  so  altered,  from  a  cheerful  humour  that  was 
always  alike,  never  over  merry  but  always  pleased, 
I  was  grown  heavy  and  sullen,  froward  and  dis- 
composed ;  and  that  country  which  usually  gives 
people  a  jolliness  and  gaiety  that  is  natural  to  the 
climate,  had  wrought  in  me  so  contrary  effects 
that  I  was  as  new  a  thing  to  them  as  my  clothes. 
If  you  find  all  this  to  be  sad  truth  hereafter, 
remember  that  I  gave  you  fair  warning. 

Here  is  a  ring  :  it  must  not  be  at  all  wider  than 
this,  which  is  rather  too  big  for  me  than  other- 
wise ;  but  that  is  a  good  fault,  and  counted  lucky 
by  superstitious  people.  I  am  not  so,  though  : 
'tis  indifferent  whether  there  be  any  word  in't  or 
not ;  only  'tis  as  well  without,  and  will  make  my 
wearing  it  the  less  observed.  You  must  give 
Nan  leave  to  cut  a  lock  of  your  hair  for  me,  too. 
Oh,  my  heart !  what  a  sigh  was  there !  I  will 
not  tell  you  how  many  this  journey  causes ;  nor 


228  Letters  from  Dorothy  O  shorn  e. 

the  fear  and  apprehensions  I  have  for  you.  No, 
I  long  to  be  rid  of  you,  am  afraid  you  will  not  go 
soon  enough  :  do  not  you  believe  this  ?  No,  my 
dearest,  I  know  you  do  not,  whate'er  you  say, 
you  cannot  doubt  that  I  am  yours. 

Letter  51. — Lady  Newport  was  the  wife  of  the  Earl  of 
Newport,  and  mother  of  Lady  Anne  Blunt  of  whom 
we  heard  something  in  former  letters.  She  is  men- 
tioned as  a  prominent  leader  of  London  society.  In 
March  1652  she  is  granted  a  pass  to  leave  the  country, 
on  condition  that  she  gives  security  to  do  nothing 
prejudicial  to  the  State  ;  from  which  we  may  draw  the 
inference  that  she  was  a  political  notability. 

My  Lady  Devonshire  was  Christian,  daughter  of 
Lord  Bruce  of  Kinloss.  She  married  William  Caven- 
dish, second  Earl  of  Devonshire.  Her  daughter  Anne 
married  Lord  Rich,  and  died  suddenly  in  1638.  Pomfret, 
Godolphin,  and  Falkland  celebrated  her  virtues  in  verse, 
and  Waller  wrote  her  funeral  hymn,  which  is  still  known 
to  some  of  us, — 

The  Lady  Rich  is  dead. 

Heartrending  news  !   and  dreadful  to  those  few 
Who  her  resemble  and  her  steps  pursue, 
That  Death  should  licence  have  to  range  among 
The  fair,  the  wise,  the  virtuous,  and  the  young. 

It  was  the  only  son  of  Lady  Rich  who  married 
Frances  Cromwell. 

Lord  Warwick  was  the  father  of  Robert,  Lord  Rich, 
and  we  may  gather  from  this  letter  that,  at  Lady 
Devonshire's  instigation,  he  had  interfered  in  a  proposed 
second  marriage  between  his  son  and  some  fair  un- 
known. 

Partlienissa  is  only  just  out.  It  is  the  latest  thing 
in  literary  circles.  We  find  it  advertised  in  Mercurins 
Politicus,  1 9th  January  1654: — "  Parthenissa,  that  most 


The  Last  of  Chicksands.  229 

famous  romance,  composed  by  the  Lord  Broghill,  and 
dedicated  to  the  Lady  Northumberland."  It  is  a 
romance  of  the  style  of  Cleopatre  and  Cyrus,  to  enjoy 
which  in  the  nineteenth  century  would  require  a  curious 
and  acquired  taste.  L'ilhistre  Bassa  was  a  romance  of 
Scuderi ;  and  the  passage  in  the  epistle  to  which  Dorothy 
refers, — we  quote  it  from  a  translation  by  one  Henry 
Cogan,  1652, — runs  as  follows  :  "And  if  you  see  not  my 
hero  persecuted  with  love  by  women,  it  is  not  because 
he  was  not  amiable,  and  that  he  could  not  be  loved,  but 
because  it  would  clash  with  civility  in  the  persons  of 
ladies,  and  with  true  resemblance  in  that  of  men,  who 
rarely  show  themselves  cruel  unto  them,  nor  in  doing  it 
could  have  any  good  grace." 

SIR, — The  lady  was  in  the  right.  You  are  a 
very  pretty  gentleman  and  a  modest ;  were  there 
ever  such  stories  as  these  you  tell  ?  The  best 
on't  is,  I  believe  none  of  them  unless  it  be  that 
of  my  Lady  Newport,  which  I  must  confess  is  so 
like  her  that  if  it  be  not  true  'twas  at  least 
excellently  well  fancied.  But  my  Lord  Rich  was 
not  caught,  tho'  he  was  near  it.  My  Lady 
Devonshire,  whose  daughter  his  first  wife  was, 
has  engaged  my  Lord  Warwick  to  put  a  stop  to 
the  business.  Otherwise,  I  think  his  present 
want  of  fortune,  and  the  little  sense  of  honour 
he  has,  might  have  been  prevailed  on  to  marry 
her. 

'Tis  strange  to  see  the  folly  that  possesses  the 
young  people  of  this  age,  and  the  liberty  they 
take  to  themselves.  I  have  the  charity  to  believe 
they  appear  very  much  worse  than  they  are,  and 
that  the  want  of  a  Court  to  govern  themselves  by 


230  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

is  in  great  part  the  cause  of  their  ruin  ;  though 
that  was  no  perfect  school  of  virtue,  yet  Vice 
there  wore  her  mask,  and  appeared  so  unlike 
herself  that  she  gave  no  scandal.  Such  as  were 
really  discreet  as  they  seemed  to  be  gave  good 
example,  and  the  eminency  of  their  condition 
made  others  strive  to  imitate  them,  or  at  least 
they  durst  not  own  a  contrary  course.  All  who 
had  good  principles  and  inclinations  were  en- 
couraged in  them,  and  such  as  had  neither  were 
forced  to  put  on  a  handsome  disguise  that  they 
might  not  be  out  of  countenance  at  themselves. 
'Tis  certain  (what  you  say)  that  where  divine  or 
human  laws  are  not  positive  we  may  be  our  own 
judges ;  nobody  can  hinder  us,  nor  is  it  in  itself 
to  be  blamed.  But,  sure,  it  is  not  safe  to  take 
all  liberty  that  is  allowed  us, — there  are  not  many 
that  are  sober  enough  to  be  trusted  with  the 
government  of  themselves  ;  and  because  others 
judge  us  with  more  severity  than  our  indulgence 
to  ourselves  will  permit,  it  must  necessarily  follow 
that  'tis  safer  being  ruled  by  their  opinions  than 
by  our  own.  I  am  disputing  again,  though  you 
told  me  my  fault  so  plainly. 

I'll  give  it  over,  and  tell  you  that  Parthenissa 
is  now  my  company.  My  brother  sent  it  down, 
and  I  have  almost  read  it.  'Tis  handsome 
language ;  you  would  know  it  to  be  writ  by  a 
person  of  good  quality  though  you  were  not  told 
it ;  but,  on  the  whole,  I  am  not  very  much  taken 
with  it.  All  the  stories  have  too  near  a  resem- 
blance with  those  of  other  romances,  there  is 


The  Last  of  Chicksands.  231 

nothing  new  or  surprenant  in  them ;  the  ladies 
are  all  so  kind  they  make  no  sport,  and  I  meet 
only  with  one  that  took  me  by  doing  a  handsome 
thing  of  the  kind.  She  was  in  a  besieged  town, 
and  persuaded  all  those  of  her  sex  to  go  out  with 
her  to  the  enemy  (which  were  a  barbarous  people) 
and  die  by  their  swords,  that  the  provisions  of  the 
town  might  last  the  longer  for  such  as  were  able 
to  do  service  in  defending  it.  But  how  angry 
was  I  to  see  him  spoil  this  again  by  bringing  out 
a  letter  this  woman  left  behind  her  for  the 
governor  of  the  town,  where  she  discovers  a 
passion  for  him,  and  makes  that  the  reason  why 
she  did  it.  I  confess  I  have  no  patience  for  our 
faiseurs  de  Romance  when  they  make  a  woman 
court.  It  will  never  enter  into  my  head  that  'tis 
possible  any  woman  can  love  where  she  is  not 
first  loved,  and  much  less  that  if  they  should  do 
that,  they  could  have  the  face  to  own  it.  Me- 
thinks  he  that  writes  L'illustre  Bassa  says  well 
in  his  epistle  that  we  are  not  to  imagine  his  hero 
to  be  less  taking  than  those  of  other  romances 
because  the  ladies  do  not  fall  in  love  with  him 
whether  he  will  or  not.  'Twould  be  an  injury  to 
the  ladies  to  suppose  they  could  do  so,  and  a 
greater  to  his  hero's  civility  if  he  should  put  him 
upon  being  cruel  to  them,  since  he  was  to  love 
but  one.  Another  fault  I  find,  too,  in  the  style — 
'tis  affected.  Ambitioned  is  a  great  word  with 
him,  and  ignore ;  my  concern,  or  of  great  concern, 
is,  it  seems,  properer  than  concernment :  and 
though  he  makes  his  people  say  fine  handsome 


232  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osbonie. 

things  to  one  another,  yet  they  are  not  easy  and 
naive  like  the  French,  and  there  is  a  little  harsh- 
ness in  most  of  the  discourse  that  one  would  take 
to  be  the  fault  of  a  translator  rather  than  of  an 
author.  But  perhaps  I  like  it  the  worse  for 
having  a  piece  of  Cyrus  by  me  that  I  am  hugely 
pleased  with,  and  that  I  would  fain  have  you 
read :  I'll  send  it  you.  At  least  read  one  story 
that  I'll  mark  you  down,  if  you  have  time  for  no 
more.  I  am  glad  you  stay  to  wait  on  your  sister. 
I  would  have  my  gallant  civil  to  all,  much  more 
when  it  is  so  due,  and  kindness  too. 

I  have  the  cabinet,  and  'tis  in  earnest  a  pretty 
one ;  though  you  will  not  own  it  for  a  present, 
I'll  keep  it  as  one,  and  'tis  like  to  be  yours  no 
more  but  as  'tis  mine.  I'll  warrant'  you  would 
ne'er  have  thought  of  making  me  a  present  of 
charcoal  as  my  servant  James  would  have  done, 
to  warm  my  heart  I  think  he  meant  it.  But  the 
truth  is,  I  had  been  inquiring  for  some  (as  'tis  a 
commodity  scarce  enough  in  this  country),  and  he 
hearing  it,  told  the  baily  [bailiff  ?]  he  would  give 
him  some  if  'twere  for  me.  But  this  is  not  all. 
I  cannot  forbear  telling  you  the  other  day  he 
made  me  a  visit,  and  I,  to  prevent  his  making 
discourse  to  me,  made  Mrs.  Goldsmith  and  Jane 
sit  by  all  the  while.  But  he  came  better  provided 
than  I  could  have  imagined.  He  brought  a  letter 
with  him,  and  gave  it  me  as  one  he  had  met  with 
directed  to  me,  he  thought  it  came  out  of  North- 
amptonshire. I  was  upon  my  guard,  and  suspect- 
ing all  he  said,  examined  him  so  strictly  where  he 


The  Last  of  Chicksands.  233 

had  it  before  I  would  open  it,  that  he  was  hugely 
confounded,  and  I  confirmed  that  'twas  his.  I 
laid  it  by  and  wished  that  they  would  have  left  us, 
that  I  might  have  taken  notice  on't  to  him.  But 
I  had  forbid  it  them  so  strictly  before,  that  they 
offered  not  to  stir  farther  than  to  look  out  of 
window,  as  not  thinking  there  was  any  necessity 
of  giving  us  their  eyes  as  well  as  their  ears  ;  but 
he  that  saw  himself  discovered  took  that  time  to 
confess  to  me  (in  a  whispering  voice  that  I  could 
hardly  hear  myself)  that  the  letter  (as  my  Lord 
Broghill  says)  was  of  great  concern  to  him,  and 
begged  I  would  read  it,  and  give  him  my  answer. 
I  took  it  up  presently,  as  if  I  had  meant  it,  but 
threw  it,  sealed  as  it  was,  into  the  fire,  and  told 
him  (as  softly  as  he  had  spoke  to  me)  I  thought 
that  the  quickest  and  best  way  of  answering  it. 
He  sat  awhile  in  great  disorder,  without  speaking 
a  word,  and  so  ris  and  took  his  leave.  Now 
what  think  you,  shall  I  ever  hear  of  him  more  ? 

You  do  not  thank  me  for  using  your  rival  so 
scurvily  nor  are  not  jealous  of  him,  though  your 
father  thinks  my  intentions  were  not  handsome 
towards  you,  which  methinks  is  another  argument 
that  one  is  not  to  be  one's  own  judge ;  for  I  am 
very  confident  they  were,  and  with  his  favour 
shall  never  believe  otherwise.  I  am  sure  I  have 
no  ends  to  serve  of  my  own  in  what  I  did,— it 
could  be  no  advantage  to  me  that  had  firmly 
resolved  not  to  marry ;  but  I  thought  it  might  be 
an  injury  to  you  to  keep  you  in  expectation  of 
what  was  never  likely  to  be,  as  I  apprehended. 


234  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

Why  do  I  enter  into  this  wrangling  discourse  ? 
Let  your  father  think  me  what  he  pleases,  if  he 
ever  comes  to  know  me,  the  rest  of  my  actions 
shall  justify  me  in  this ;  if  he  does  not,  I'll  begin 
to  practise  on  him  (what  you  so  often  preached  to 
me)  to  neglect  the  report  of  the  world,  and  satisfy 
myself  in  my  own  innocency. 

'Twill  be  pleasinger  to  you,  I  am  sure,  to  tell 
you  how  fond  I  am  of  your  lock.  Well,  in 
earnest  now,  and  setting  aside  all  compliments, 
I  never  saw  finer  hair,  nor  of  a  better  colour ;  but 
cut  no  more  on't,  I  would  not  have  it  spoiled  for 
the  world.  If  you  love  me,  be  careful  on't.  I  am 
combing,  and  curling,  and  kissing  this  lock  all 
day,  and  dreaming  on't  all  night.  The  ring,  too, 
is  very  well,  only  a  little  of  the  biggest.  Send 
me  a  tortoise  one  that  is  a  little  less  than  that 
I  sent  for  a  pattern.  I  would  not  have  the  rule 
so  absolutely  true  without  exception  that  hard 
hairs  be  ill-natured,  for  then  I  should  be  so.  But 
I  can  allow  that  all  soft  hairs  are  good,  and  so 
are  you,  or  I  am  deceived  as  much  as  you  are 
if  you  think  I  do  not  love  you  enough.  Tell  me, 
my  dearest,  am  I  ?  You  will  not  be  if  you  think 
I  am 

Yours. 

Letter  52. — It  is  interesting  to  find  Dorothy  reading 
the  good  Jeremy  Taylor's  Holy  Living,  a  book  too  little 
known  in  this  day.  For  amidst  its  old-fashioned  piety 
there  are  many  sentiments  of  practical  goodness,  ex- 
pressed with  clear  insistence,  combined  with  a  quaint 
grace  of  literary  style  which  we  have  long  ago  cast 


The  Last  of  Chicksands.  235 

aside  in  the  pursuit  of  other  things.  Dorothy  loved 
this  book,  and  knew  it  well.  Compare  the  following 
extract  from  the  chapter  on  Christian  Justice  with  what 
Dorothy  has  written  in  this  letter.  Has  she  been 
recently  reading  this  passage  ?  Perhaps  she  has  ;  but 
more  probably  it  is  the  recollection  of  what  is  well 
known  that  she  is  reproducing  from  a  memory  not 
unstored  with  such  learning.  Thus  writes  Dr.  Taylor  : 
"  There  is  very  great  peace  and  immunity  from  sin  in 
resigning  our  wills  up  to  the  command  of  others  :  for, 
provided  our  duty  to  God  be  secured,  their  commands 
are  warrants  to  us  in  all  things  else  ;  and  the  case  of 
conscience  is  determined,  if  the  command  be  evident 
and  pressing :  and  it  is  certain,  the  action  that  is  but 
indifferent  and  without  reward,  if  done  only  upon  our 
own  choice,  is  an  action  of  duty  and  of  religion,  and 
rewardable  by  the  grace  and  favour  of  God,  if  done  in 
obedience  to  the  command  of  our  superiors." 

Little  and  Great  Brickhill,  where  Temple  is  to  receive 
a  letter  from  Dorothy,  kindly  favoured  by  Mr.  Gibson, 
stand  due  west  of  Chicksands  some  seventeen  miles,  and 
about  forty -six  miles  along  the  high-road  from  London 
to  Chester.  Temple  would  probably  arrange  to  stay 
there,  receive  Dorothy's  letter,  and  send  one  in  return. 

Dorothy  has  apparently  tired  of  Calprenede  and 
Scuderi,  of  Cleopdtre  and  Cyrus,  and  has  turned  to 
travels  to  amuse  her.  Fernando  Mendez  Pinto  did,  I 
believe,  actually  visit  China,  and  is  said  to  have  landed 
in  the  Gulf  of  Pekin.  What  he  writes  of  China  seems 
to  bear  some  resemblance  to  what  later  writers  have 
said.  It  is  hard  to  say  how  and  where  his  conversations 
with  the  Chinese  were  carried  on,  as  he  himself  admits 
that  he  did  not  understand  one  word  of  the  language. 

Lady  Grey's  sister,  Mrs.  Pooley,  is  unknown  to  history. 
Of  Mr.  Fish  we  know,  as  has  already  been  said,  nothing 
more  than  that  he  was  Dorothy's  lover,  and  a  native 
of  Bedfordshire,  probably  her  near  neighbour.  James 


236  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

B must   be   another   lover,   and    he   is   altogether 

untraceable.  Mrs.  Goldsmith  is,  as  you  will  remember, 
wife  of  the  Vicar  of  Campton.  The  Valentine  stories 
will  date  this  letter  for  us  as  written  in  the  latter  half  of 
February. 

SIR, — They  say  you  gave  order  for  this  waste- 
paper  ;  how  do  you  think  I  could  ever  fill  it,  or 
with  what  ?  I  am  not  always  in  the  humour  to 
wrangle  and  dispute.  For  example  now,  I  had 
rather  agree  to  what  you  say,  than  tell  you  that 
Dr.  Taylor  (whose  devote  you  must  know  I  am) 
says  there  is  a  great  advantage  to  be  gained  in 
resigning  up  one's  will  to  the  command  of  another, 
because  the  same  action  which  in  itself  is  wholly 
indifferent,  if  done  upon  our  own  choice,  becomes 
an  act  of  duty  and  religion  if  done  in  obedience  to 
the  command  of  any  person  whom  nature,  the 
laws,  or  ourselves  have  given  a  power  over  us  ; 
so  that  though  in  an  action  already  done  we  can 
only  be  our  own  judges,  because  we  only  know 
with  what  intentions  it  was  done,  yet  in  any  we 
intend,  'tis  safest,  sure,  to  take  the  advice  of 
another.  Let  me  practise  this  towards  you  as 
well  as  preach  it  to  you,  and  I'll  lay  a  wager  you 
will  approve  on't.  But  I  am  chiefly  of  your 
opinion  that  contentment  (which  the  Spanish 
proverb  says  is  the  best  paint)  gives  the  lustre 
to  all  one's  enjoyment,  puts  a  beauty  upon  things 
which  without  it  would  have  none,  increases  it 
extremely  where  'tis  already  in  some  degree,  and 
without  it,  all  that  we  call  happiness  besides  loses 
its  property.  What  is  contentment,  must  be  left 


The  Last  of  Chicksands.  237 

to  every  particular  person  to  judge  for  themselves, 
since  they  only  know  what  is  so  to  them  which 
differs  in  all  according  to  their  several  humours. 
Only  you  and  I  agree  'tis  to  be  found  by  us  in 
a  true  friend,  a  moderate  fortune,  and  a  retired 
life  ;  the  last  I  thank  God  I  have  in  perfection. 
My  cell  is  almost  finished,  and  when  you  come 
back  you'll  find  me  in  it,  and  bring  me  both  the 
rest  I  hope. 

I  find  it  much  easier  to  talk  of  your  coming 
back  than  your  going.  You  shall  never  persuade 
me  I  send  you  this  journey.  No,  pray  let  it  be 
your  father's  commands,  or  a  necessity  your 
fortune  puts  upon  you.  'Twas  unkindly  said  to 
tell  me  I  banish  you  ;  your  heart  never  told  it 
you,  I  dare  swear ;  nor  mine  ne'er  thought  it. 
No,  my  dear,  this  is  our  last  misfortune,  let's  bear 
it  nobly.  Nothing  shows  we  deserve  a  punish- 
ment so  much  as  our  murmuring  at  it ;  and  the 
way  to  lessen  those  we  feel,  and  to  'scape  those 
we  fear,  is  to  suffer  patiently  what  is  imposed, 
making  a  virtue  of  necessity.  'Tis  not  that  I 
have  less  kindness  or  more  courage  than  you,  but 
that  mistrusting  myself  more  (as  I  have  more 
reason),  I  have  armed  myself  all  that  is  possible 
against  this  occasion.  I  have  thought  that  there  is 
not  much  difference  between  your  being  at  Dublin 
or  at  London,  as  our  affairs  stand.  You  can  write 
and  hear  from  the  first,  and  I  should  not  see  you 
sooner  if  you  continued  still  at  the  last. 

Besides,  I  hope  this  journey  will  be  of  advan- 
tage to  us  ;  when  your  father  pressed  your  coming 


238  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osbornc. 

over  he  told  you,  you  needed  not  doubt  either  his 
power  or  his  will.  Have  I  done  anything  since 
that  deserves  he  should  alter  his  intentions  towards 
us  ?  Or  has  any  accident  lessened  his  power  ? 
If  neither,  we  may  hope  to  be  happy,  and  the 
sooner  for  this  journey.  I  dare  not  send  my  boy 
to  meet  you  at  Brickhill  nor  any  other  of  the 
servants,  they  are  all  too  talkative.  But  I  can 
get  Mr.  Gibson,  if  you  will,  to  bring  you  a  letter. 
'Tis  a  civil,  well-natured  man  as  can  be,  of  ex- 
cellent principles  and  exact  honesty.  I  durst 
make  him  my  confessor,  though  he  is  not  obliged 
by  his  orders  to  conceal  anything  that  is  told  him. 
But  you  must  tell  me  then  which  Brickhill  it  is 
you  stop  at,  Little  or  Great ;  they  are  neither  of 
them  far  from  us.  If  you  stay  there  you  will 
write  back  by  him,  will  you  not,  a  long  letter  ?  I 
shall  need  it ;  besides  that,  you  owe  it  me  for  the 
last  being  so  short.  Would  you  saw  what  letters 
my  brother  writes  me  ;  you  are  not  half  so  kind. 
Well,  he  is  always  in  the  extremes ;  since  our  last 
quarrel  he  has  courted  me  more  than  ever  he  did 
in  his  life,  and  made  me  more  presents,  which, 
considering  his  humour,  is  as  great  a  testimony  of 
his  kindness  as  'twas  of  Mr.  Smith's  to  my  Lady 
Sunderland  when  he  presented  Mrs.  Camilla. 
He  sent  me  one  this  week  which,  in  earnest,  is  as 
pretty  a  thing  as  I  have  seen,  a  China  trunk,  and 
the  finest  of  the  kind  that  e'er  I  saw.  By  the 
way  (this  puts  me  in  mind  on't),  have  you  read 
the  story  of  China  written  by  a  Portuguese, 
Fernando  Mendez  Pinto,  I  think  his  name  is  ? 


The  Last  of  Chicksands.  239 

If  you  have  not,  take  it  with  you,  'tis  as  diverting 
a  book  of  the  kind  as  ever  I  read,  and  is  as 
handsomely  written.  You  must  allow  him  the 
privilege  of  a  traveller,  and  he  does  not  abuse  it. 
His  lies  are  as  pleasant  harmless  ones,  as  lies  can 
be,  and  in  no  great  number  considering  the  scope 
he  has  for  them.  There  is  one  in  Dublin  now, 
that  ne'er  saw  much  farther,  has  told  me  twice 
as  many  (I  dare  swear)  of  Ireland.  If  I  should 
ever  live  to  see  that  country  and  be  in't,  I  should 
make  excellent  sport  with  them.  'Tis  a  sister 
of  my  Lady  Grey's,  her  name  is  Pooley ;  her 
husband  lives  there  too,  but  I  am  afraid  in  no 
very  good  condition.  They  were  but  poor,  and 
she  lived  here  with  her  sisters  when  I  knew  her ; 
'tis  not  half  a  year  since  she  went,  I  think.  If 
you  hear  of  her,  send  me  word  how  she  makes  a 
shift  there. 

And  hark  you,  can  you  tell  me  whether  the 
gentleman  that  lost  a  crystal  box  the  ist  of 
February  in  St.  James'  Park  or  Old  Spring 
Gardens  has  found  it  again  or  not,  I  have  strong 
curiosity  to  know  ?  Tell  me,  and  I'll  tell  you 
something  that  you  don't  know,  which  is,  that  I 
am  your  Valentine  and  you  are  mine.  I  did  not 
think  of  drawing  any,  but  Mrs.  Goldsmith  and 
Jane  would  need  make  me  some  for  them  and 
myself;  so  I  writ  down  our  three  names,  and 
for  men  Mr.  Fish,  James  B.,  and  you.  I  cut 
them  all  equal  and  made  them  up  myself  before 
them,  and  because  I  would  owe  it  wholly  to  my 
good  fortune  if  I  were  pleased.  I  made  both 


240  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

them  choose  first  that  had  never  seen  what  was 
in  them,  and  they  left  me  you.  Then  I  made 
them  choose  again  for  theirs,  and  my  name  was 
left.  You  cannot  imagine  how  I  was  delighted 
with  this  little  accident,  but  by  taking  notice  that 
I  cannot  forbear  telling  you  it.  I  was  not  half  so 
pleased  with  my  encounter  next  morning.  I  was 
up  early,  but  with  no  design  of  getting  another 
Valentine,  and  going  out  to  walk  in  my  night- 
cloak  and  night-gown,  I  met  Mr.  Fish  going  a 
hunting,  I  think  he  was ;  but  he  stayed  to  tell  me 
I  was  his  Valentine ;  and  I  should  not  have  been 
rid  on  him  quickly,  if  he  had  not  thought  himself 
a  little  too  negligee ;  his  hair  was  not  powdered, 
and  his  clothes  were  but  ordinary ;  to  say  truth, 
he  looked  then  methought  like  other  mortal 
people.  Yet  he  was  as  handsome  as  your 
Valentine.  I'll  swear  you  wanted  one  when 
you  took  her,  and  had  very  ill  fortune  that 
nobody  met  you  before  her.  Oh,  if  I  had  not 
terrified  my  little  gentleman  when  he  brought 
me  his  own  letter,  now  sure  I  had  had  him  for 
my  Valentine ! 

On  my  conscience,  I  shall  follow  your  counsel 
if  ere  he  comes  again,  but  I  am  persuaded  he  will 
not.  I  writ  my  brother  that  story  for  want  of 
something  else,  and  he  says  I  did  very  well, 
there  was  no  other  way  to  be  rid  on  him ;  and 
he  makes  a  remark  upon't  that  I  can  be  severe 
enough  when  I  please,  and  wishes  I  would 
practise  it  somewhere  else  as  well  as  there. 
Can  you  tell  where  that  is  ?  I  never  under- 


The  Last  of  Chic ksands.  241 

stand  anybody  that  does  not  speak  plain  English, 
and  he  never  uses  that  to  me  of  late,  but  tells 
me  the  finest  stones  (I  may  apply  them  how  I 
please)  of  people  that  have  married  when  they 
thought  there  was  great  kindness,  and  how  miser- 
ably they  have  found  themselves  deceived  ;  how 
despicable  they  have  made  themselves  by  it, 
and  how  sadly  they  have  repented  on't.  He 
reckons  more  inconveniency  than  you  do  that 
follows  good  nature,  says  it  makes  one  credulous, 
apt  to  be  abused,  betrays  one  to  the  cunning  of 
people  that  make  advantage  on't,  and  a  thousand 
such  things  which  I  hear  half  asleep  and  half 
awake,  and  take  little  notice  of,  unless  it  be 
sometimes  to  say  that  with  all  these  faults  I 
would  not  be  without  it.  No,  in  earnest,  nor  I 
could  not  love  any  person  that  I  thought  had  it 
not  to  a  good  degree.  'Twas  the  first  thing  I 
liked  in  you,  and  without  it  I  should  never  have 
liked  anything.  I  know  'tis  counted  simple,  but 
I  cannot  imagine  why.  'Tis  true  some  people 
have  it  that  have  not  wit,  but  there  are  at  least 
as  many  foolish  people  I  have  ever  observed  to 
be  fullest  of  tricks,  little  ugly  plots  and  designs, 
unnecessary  disguises,  and  mean  cunnings,  which 
are  the  basest  qualities  in  the  world,  and  makes 
one  the  most  contemptible,  I  think ;  when  I  once 
discover  them  they  lose  their  credit  with  me  for 
ever.  Some  will  say  they  are  cunning  only  in  their 
own  defence,  and  that  there  is  no  living  in  this 
world  without  it ;  but  I  cannot  understand  how 
anything  more  is  necessary  to  one's  own  safety 

Q 


242  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osbornc. 

besides  a  prudent  caution ;  that  I  now  think  is, 
though  I  can  remember  when  nobody  could  have 
persuaded  me  that  anybody  meant  ill  when  it  did 
not  appear  by  their  words  and  actions.  I  remem- 
ber my  mother  (who,  if  it  may  be  allowed  me  to 
say  it)  was  counted  as  wise  a  woman  as  most 
in  England, — when  she  seemed  to  distrust  any- 
body, and  saw  I  took  notice  on't,  would  ask  if  I 
did  not  think  her  too  jealous  and  a  little  ill- 
natured.  "  Come,  I  know  you  do,"  says  she,  "  if 
you  would  confess  it,  and  I  cannot  blame  you. 
When  I  was  young  as  you  are,  I  thought  my 
father-in-law  (who  was  a  wise  man)  the  most 
unreasonably  suspicious  man  that  ever  was,  and 
disliked  him  for  it  hugely ;  but  I  have  lived  to  see 
it  is  almost  impossible  to  think  people  worse  than 
they  are,  and  so  will  you."  I  did  not  believe 
her,  and  less,  that  I  should  have  more  to  say  to 
you  than  this  paper  would  hold.  It  shall  never 
be  said  I  began  another  at  this  time  of  night, 
though  I  have  spent  this  idly,  that  should  have 
told  you  with  a  little  more  circumstance  how 
perfectly 

I  am  yours. 

Letter  53. — Dorothy's  brother  seems  to  have  got  hold 
of  a  new  weapon  of  attack  in  Temple's  religious  opinions, 
which  might  have  led  to  a  strategic  success  in  more 
skilful  hands.  He  only  manages  to  exasperate  Dorothy 
with  himself,  not  with  Temple.  As  for  Temple,  he  has 
not  altogether  escaped  the  censure  of  the  orthodox. 
Gossiping  Bishop  Burnet,  in  one  of  his  more  ill-natured 
passages,  tells  us  that  Temple  was  an  Epicurean,  thinking 


The  Last  of  Chicksands.  243 

religion  to  be  fit  only  for  the  mob,  and  a  corrupter  of 
all  that  came  near  him.  Unkind  words  these,  with  just, 
perhaps,  those  dregs  of  truth  in  them  which  make  gossip 
so  hard  to  bear  patiently.  Was  it  true,  as  Courtenay 
thinks,  that  jealousy  of  King  William's  attachment  to 
Temple  disturbed  the  episcopal  equipoise  of  soul,  render- 
ing his  Lordship  slanderous,  even  a  backbiter  ? 

Robin  C.  is  probably  one  of  the  Cheeke  family. 

Bagshawe  is  Edward  Bagshawe  the  Elder,  B.A.  of 
Brasenose,  Oxford,  and  of  the  Middle  Temple,  barrister- 
at-law.  In  the  early  part  of  the  century  he  had  been 
a  Puritan  among  Puritans,  and  in  the  old  hall  of  the 
Middle  Temple  had  delivered  two  lectures  to  show  that 
bishops  may  not  meddle  in  civil  affairs,  and  that  a 
Parliament  may  be  held  without  bishops  ;  questions  still 
unsettled.  Laud  appears  to  have  prohibited  these 
lectures.  Bagshawe  in  after  life  joined  the  King  at 
Oxford,  and  suffered  imprisonment  at  the  hands  of  his 
former  friends  in  the  King's  Bench  Prison  from  1644  to 
1646.  Young  Sir  Harry  Yelverton,  Lady  Ruthin's 
husband,  broke  a  theological  lance  with  his  son,  the 
younger  Edward  Bagshawe,  to  vindicate  the  cause  of 
the  Church  of  England.  The  elder  Bagshawe  died  in 
1662,  and  was  buried  at  Morton  Pinckney,  in  North- 
amptonshire. How  and  why  he  railed  at  love  and 
marriage  it  is  impossible  now  to  know.  Edward 
Bagshawe  the  younger  published  in  1671  an  Antidote 
against  Mr.  Baxters  Treatise  of  Love  and  Marriage. 

The  preaching  woman  at  Somerset  House  was,  in  all 
probability,  Mrs.  Hannah  Trupnel.  She,  that  in  April 
of  this  year  is  spoken  of,  in  an  old  news-book,  as  having 
"lately  acted  her  part  in  a  trance  so  many  days  at 
Whitehall."  She  appears  to  have  been  full  of  mystical, 
anti-Puritan  prophecies,  and  was  indicted  in  Cornwall  as 
a  rogue  and  vagabond,  convicted  and  bound  over  in 
recognizances  to  behave  herself  in  future.  After  this 
she  abandoned  her  design  of  passing  from  county  to 


244  Letters  fr ODI  DorotJiy  Osborne. 

county  disaffecting  the  people  with  her  prophecies,  and 
we  hear  no  more  of  her. 

SIR,  —  'Tis  well  you  have  given  over  your 
reproaches  ;  I  can  allow  you  to  tell  me  of  my 
faults  kindly  and  like  a  friend.  Possibly  it  is  a 
weakness  in  me  to  aim  at  the  world's  esteem,  as 
if  I  could  not  be  happy  without  it ;  but  there  are 
certain  things  that  custom  has  made  almost  of 
absolute  necessity,  and  reputation  I  take  to  be 
one  of  these.  If  one  could  be  invisible  I  should 
choose  that ;  but  since  all  people  are  seen  or 
known,  and  shall  be  talked  of  in  spite  of  their 
teeth,  who  is  it  that  does  not  desire,  at  least,  that 
nothing  of  ill  may  be  said  of  them,  whether  justly 
or  otherwise  ?  I  never  knew  any  so  satisfied 
with  their  own  innocence  as  to  be  content  that 
the  world  should  think  them  guilty.  Some  out 
of  pride  have  seemed  to  contemn  ill  reports  when 
they  have  found  they  could  not  avoid  them,  but 
none  out  of  strength  of  reason,  though  many 
have  pretended  to  it.  No,  not  my  Lady  New- 
castle with  all  her  philosophy,  therefore  you  must 
not  expect  it  from  me.  I  shall  never  be  ashamed 
to  own  that  I  have  a  particular  value  for  you 
above  any  other,  but  'tis  not  the  greatest  merit 
of  person  will  excuse  a  want  of  fortune ;  in  some 
degree  I  think  it  will,  at  least  with  the  most 
rational  part  of  the  world,  and,  as  far  as  that  will 
read,  I  desire  it  should.  I  would  not  have  the 
world  believe  I  married  out  of  interest  and  to 
please  my  friends ;  I  had  much  rather  they  should 


The  Last  of  Chicksands.  245 

know  I  chose  the  person,  and  took  his  fortune, 
because  'twas  necessary,  and  that  I  prefer  a 
competency  with  one  I  esteem  infinitely  before 
a  vast  estate  in  other  hands.  'Tis  much  easier, 
sure,  to  get  a  good  fortune  than  a  good  husband  ; 
but  whosoever  marries  without  any  consideration 
of  fortune  shall  never  be  allowed  to  do  it,  but  of 
so  reasonable  an  apprehension  the  whole  world 
(without  any  reserve)  shall  pronounce  they  did  it 
merely  to  satisfy  their  giddy  humour. 

Besides,  though  you  imagine  'twere  a  great 
argument  of  my  kindness  to  consider  nothing 
but  you,  in  earnest  I  believe  'twould  be  an 
injury  to  you.  I  do  not  see  that  it  puts  any 
value  upon  men  when  women  marry  them  for 
love  (as  they  term  it) ;  'tis  not  their  merit,  but 
our  folly  that  is  always  presumed  to  cause  it ;  and 
would  it  be  any  advantage  to  you  to  have  your 
wife  thought  an  indiscreet  person  ?  All  this  I 
can  say  to  you  ;  but  when  my  brother  disputes  it 
with  me  I  have  other  arguments  for  him,  and  I 
drove  him  up  so  close  t'other  night  that  for  want 
of  a  better  gap  to  get  out  at  he  was  fain  to  say 
that  he  feared  as  much  your  having  a  fortune  as 
your  having  none,  for  he  saw  you  held  my  Lord 
Lt>s  [?  Lieutenant's]  principles.  That  religion 
and  honour  were  things  you  did  not  consider  at 
all,  and  that  he  was  confident  you  would  take  any 
engagement,  serve  in  employment,  or  do  anything 
to  advance  yourself.  I  had  no  patience  for  this. 
To  say  you  were  a  beggar,  your  father  not  worth 
^"4000  in  the  whole  world,  was  nothing  in  com- 


246  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborue. 

parison  of  having  no  religion  nor  no  honour.  I 
forgot  all  my  disguise,  and  we  talked  ourselves 
weary ;  he  renounced  me,  and  I  defied  him,  but 
both  in  as  civil  language  as  it  would  permit,  and 
parted  in  great  anger  with  the  usual  ceremony  of 
a  leg  and  a  courtesy,  that  you  would  have  died 
with  laughing  to  have  seen  us. 

The  next  day  I,  not  being  at  dinner,  saw  him 
not  till  night ;  then  he  came  into  my  chamber, 
where  I  supped  but  he  did  not.  Afterwards  Mr. 
Gibson  and  he  and  I  talked  of  indifferent  things 
till  all  but  we  two  went  to  bed.  Then  he  sat 
half-an-hour  and  said  not  one  word,  nor  I  to  him. 
At  last,  in  a  pitiful  tone,  "  Sister,"  says  he,  "  I 
have  heard  you  say  that  when  anything  troubles 
you,  of  all  things  you  apprehend  going  to  bed, 
because  there  it  increases  upon  you,  and  you  lie 
at  the  mercy  of  all  your  sad  thought,  which  the 
silence  and  darkness  of  the  night  adds  a  horror 
to ;  I  am  at  that  pass  now.  I  vow  to  God  I 
would  not  endure  another  night  like  the  last  to 
gain  a  crown."  I,  who  resolved  to  take  no  notice 
what  ailed  him,  said  'twas  a  knowledge  I  had 
raised  from  my  spleen  only,  and  so  fell  into  a 
discourse  of  melancholy  and  the  causes,  and  from 
that  (I  know  not  how)  into  religion  ;  and  we  talked 
so  long  of  it,  and  so  devoutly,  that  it  laid  all  our 
anger.  We  grew  to  a  calm  and  peace  with  all 
the  world.  Two  hermits  conversing  in  a  cell  they 
equally  inhabit,  ne'er  expressed  more  humble, 
charitable  kindness,  one  towards  another,  than 
we.  He  asked  my  pardon  and  I  his,  and  he  has 


The  Last  of  Chicksands.  247 

promised  me  never  to  speak  of  it  to  me  whilst  he 
lives,  but  leave  the  event  to  God  Almighty  ;  until 
he  sees  it  done,  he  will  always  be  the  same  to  me 
that  he  is ;  then  he  shall  leave  me,  he  says,  not 
out  of  want  of  kindness  to  me,  but  because  he 
cannot  see  the  ruin  of  a  person  that  he  loves  so 
passionately,  and  in  whose  happiness  he  has  laid 
up  all  his.  These  are  the  terms  we  are  at,  and  I 
am  confident  he  will  keep  his  word  with  me,  so 
that  you  have  no  reason  to  fear  him  in  any 
respect ;  for  though  he  should  break  his  promise, 
he  should  never  make  me  break  mine.  No,  let 
me  assure  you  this  rival,  nor  any  other,  shall  ever 
alter  me,  therefore  spare  your  jealousy,  or  turn  it 
all  into  kindness. 

I  will  write  every  week,  and  no  miss  of  letters 
shall  give  us  any  doubts  of  one  another.  Time 
nor  accidents  shall  not  prevail  upon  our  hearts, 
and,  if  God  Almighty  please  to  bless  us,  we  will 
meet  the  same  we  are,  or  happier.  I  will  do  all 
you  bid  me.  I  will  pray,  and  wish,  and  hope,  but 
you  must  do  so  too,  then,  and  be  so  careful  of 
yourself  that  I  may  have  nothing  to  reproach  you 
with  when  you  come  back. 

That  vile  wench  lets  you  see  all  my  scribbles, 
I  believe ;  how  do  you  know  I  took  care  your 
hair  should  not  be  spoiled  ?  'Tis  more  than  ere 
you  did,  I  think,  you  are  so  negligent  on't,  and 
keep  it  so  ill,  'tis  pity  you  should  have  it.  May 
you  have  better  luck  in  the  cutting  it  than  I  had 
with  mine.  I  cut  it  two  or  three  years  agone,  and 
it  never  grew  since.  Look  to  it ;  if  I  keep  the 


248  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

lock  you  give  me  better  than  you  do  all  the  rest, 
I  shall  not  spare  you ;  expect  to  be  soundly 
chidden.  What  do  you  mean  to  do  with  all  my 
letters  ?  Leave  them  behind  you  ?  If  you  do, 
it  must  be  in  safe  hands,  some  of  them  concern 
you,  and  me,  and  other  people  besides  us  very 
much,  and  they  will  almost  load  a  horse  to  carry. 

Does  not  my  cousin  at  Moor  Park  mistrust  us 
a  little  ?  I  have  a  great  belief  they  do.  I  am 

sure  Robin  C told  my  brother  of  it  since  I 

was  last  in  town.  Of  all  things,  I  admire  my 
cousin  Molle  has  not  got  it  by  the  end,  he  that 
frequents  that  family  so  much,  and  is  at  this 
instant  at  Kimbolton.  If  he  has,  and  conceals  it, 
he  is  very  discreet;  I  could  never  discern  by 
anything  that  he  knew  it.  I  shall  endeavour  to 
accustom  myself  to  the  noise  on't,  and  make  it  as 
easy  to  me  as  I  can,  though  I  had  much  rather  it 
were  not  talked  of  till  there  were  an  absolute 
necessity  of  discovering  it,  and  you  can  oblige  me 
in  nothing  more  than  in  concealing  it.  I  take  it 
very  kindly  that  you  promise  to  use  all  your 
interest  in  your  father  to  persuade  him  to  endea- 
vour our  happiness,  and  he  appears  so  confident 
of  his  power  that  it  gives  me  great  hopes. 

Dear !  shall  we  ever  be  so  happy,  think  you  ? 
Ah  !  I  dare  not  hope  it.  Yet  'tis  not  want  of 
love  gives  me  these  fears.  No,  in  earnest,  I 
think  (nay,  I'm  sure)  I  love  you  more  than  ever, 
and  'tis  that  only  gives  me  these  despairing 
thoughts ;  when  I  consider  how  small  a  propor- 
tion of  happiness  is  allowed  in  this  world,  and 


The  Last  of  Chick  sands,  249 

how  great  mine  would  be  in  a  person  for  whom 
I  have  a  passionate  kindness,  and  who  has  the 
same  for  me.  As  it  is  infinitely  above  what  I  can 
deserve,  and  more .  than  God  Almighty  usually 
allots  to  the  best  people,  I  can  find  nothing  in 
reason  but  seems  to  be  against  me ;  and,  methinks, 
'tis  as  vain  in  me  to  expect  it  as  'twould  be  to 
hope  I  might  be  a  queen  (if  that  were  really  as 
desirable  a  thing  as  'tis  thought  to  be) ;  and  it  is 
just  it  should  be  so. 

We  complain  of  this  world,  and  the  variety  of 
crosses  and  afflictions  it  abounds  in,  and  yet  for 
all  this  who  is  weary  on't  (more  than  in  discourse), 
who  thinks  with  pleasure  of  leaving  it,  or  prepar- 
ing for  the  next  ?  We  see  old  folks,  who  have 
outlived  all  the  comforts  of  life,  desire  to  continue 
in  it,  and  nothing  can  wean  us  from  the  folly  of 
preferring  a  mortal  being,  subject  to  great  infirmity 
and  unavoidable  decays,  before  an  immortal  one, 
and  all  the  glories  that  are  promised  with  it.  Is 
this  not  very  like  preaching  ?  Well,  'tis  too  good 
for  you  ;  you  shall  have  no  more  on't.  I  am  afraid 
you  are  not  mortified  enough  for  such  discourse 
to  work  upon  (though  I  am  not  of  my  brother's 
opinion,  neither,  that  you  have  no  religion  in 
you).  In  earnest,  I  never  took  anything  he  ever 
said  half  so  ill,  as  nothing,  sure,  is  so  great  an 
injury.  It  must  suppose  one  to  be  a  devil  in 
human  shape.  Oh,  me !  now  I  am  speaking  of 
religion,  let  me  ask  you  is  not  his  name  Bagshawe 
that  you  say  rails  on  love  and  women  ?  Because 
I  heard  one  t'other  day  speaking  of  him,  and  com- 


250  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

mending  his  wit,  but  withal,  said  he  was  a  perfect 
atheist.  If  so,  I  can  allow  him  to  hate  us,  and 
love,  which,  sure,  has  something  of  divine  in  it, 
since  God  requires  it  of  us.  I  am  coming  into  my 
preaching  vein  again.  What  think  you,  were  it  not 
a  good  way  of  preferment  as  the  times  are  ?  If 
you'll  advise  me  to  it  I'll  venture.  The  woman  at 
Somerset  House  was  cried  up  mightily.  Think  on't. 

Dear,  I  am  yours. 

Letter  54, — Temple  has  really  started  on  his  journey, 
and  is  now  past  Brickhill,  far  away  in  the  north  of 
England.  The  journey  to  Ireland  was  made  via 
Holyhead  in  those  days  as  it  is  now.  It  was  a  four 
days'  journey  to  Chester,  and  no  good  road  after.  The 
great  route  through  Wales  to  Holyljead  was  in  such  a 
state  that  in  1685  the  Viceroy  going  to  Ireland  was  five 
hours  in  travelling  the  fourteen  miles  from  St.  Asaph  to 
Conway  ;  between  Conway  and  Beaumaris  he  walked  ; 
and  his  lady  was  carried  in  a  litter.  A  carriage  was 
often  taken  to  pieces  at  Conway,  and  carried  to  the 
Menai  Straits  on  the  peasants'  shoulders  round  the 
dangerous  cliff  of  Penmaenmawr.  Mr.  B.  and  Mr. 
D.  remain  mysterious  symbolic  initials  of  gossip  and 
scandalmongering.  St.  Gregory's,  near  St.  Paul's,  was 
a  church  entirely  destroyed  by  the  great  fire. 

Sir  John  Tufton  of  "The  Mote,"  near  Maidstone, 
married  Mary,  the  third  daughter  and  coheiress  of 
Thomas  Lord  Wotton. 

For  your  Master  [seal  with  coat-of-arms], 
when  your  Mistress  pleases. 

SIR, — You  bid  me  write  every  week,  and  I  am 
doing  it  without  considering  how  it  will  come  to 


The  Last  of  Chic ksands.  251 

you.  Let  Nan  look  to  that,  with  whom,  I 
suppose,  you  have  left  the  orders  of  conveyance. 
I  have  your  last  letter ;  but  Jane,  to  whom  you 
refer  me,  is  not  yet  come  down.  On  Tuesday  I 
expect  her ;  and  if  she  be  not  engaged,  I  shall 
give  her  no  cause  hereafter  to  believe  that  she  is 
a  burden  to  me,  though  I  have  no  employment 
for  her  but  that  of  talking  to  me  when  I  am  in 
the  humour  of  saying  nothing.  Your  dog  is 
come  too,  and  I  have  received  him  with  all  the 
kindness  that  is  due  to  anything  you  send.  I 
have  defended  him  from  the  envy  and  malice  of 
a  troop  of  greyhounds  that  used  to  be  in  favour 
with  me ;  and  he  is  so  sensible  of  my  care  over 
him,  that  he  is  pleased  with  nobody  else,  and 
follows  me  as  if  we  had  been  of  long  acquaint- 
ance. 'Tis  well  you  are  gone  past  my  recovery. 
My  heart  has  failed  me  twenty  times  since  you 
went,  and,  had  you  been  within  my  call,  I  had 
brought  you  back  as  often,  though  I  know  thirty 
miles'  distance  and  three  hundred  are  the  same 
thing.  You  will  be  so  kind,  I  am  sure,  as  to 
write  back  by  the  coach  and  tell  me  what  the 
success  of  your  journey  so  far  has  been.  After 
that,  I  expect  no  more  (unless  you  stay  for  a 
wind)  till  you  arrive  at  Dublin.  I  pity  your 
sister  in  earnest ;  a  sea  voyage  is  welcome  to  no 
lady ;  but  you  are  beaten  to  it,  and  'twill  become 
you,  now  you  are  a  conductor,  to  show  your  valour 
and  keep  your  company  in  heart.  When  do  you 
think  of  coming  back  again  ?  I  am  asking  that 
before  you  are  at  your  journey's  end.  You  will 


252  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

not  take  it  ill  that  I  desire  it  should  be  soon. 
In  the  meantime,  I'll  practise  all  the  rules  you 
give  me.  Who  told  you  I  go  to  bed  late?  In 
earnest,  they  do  me  wrong  :  I  have  been  faulty 
in  that  point  heretofore,  I  confess,  but  'tis  a  good 
while  since  I  gave  it  over  with  my  reading  o' 
nights ;  but  in  the  daytime  I  cannot  live  without 
it,  and  'tis  all  my  diversion,  and  infinitely  more 
pleasing  to  me  than  any  company  but  yours. 
And  yet  I  am  not  given  to  it  in  any  excess  now ; 
I  have  been  very  much  more.  'Tis  Jane,  I  know, 
tells  all  these  tales  of  me.  I  shall  be  even  with 
her  some  time  or  other,  but  for  the  present  I  long 
for  her  with  some  impatience,  that  she  may  tell  me 
all  you  have  told  her. 

Never  trust  me  if  I  had  not  a  suspicion  from 
the  first  that  'twas  that  ill-looked  fellow  B—    -  who 

made  that  story  Mr.  D told  you.    That  which 

gave  me  the  first  inclination  to  that  belief  was  the 
circumstance  you  told  me  of  their  seeing  me  at 
St.  Gregory's.  For  I  remembered  to  have  seen 

B there,  and  had  occasion   to  look  up  into 

the  gallery  where  he  sat,  to  answer  a  very  civil 
salute  given  me  from  thence  by  Mr.  Freeman,  and 
saw  B—  -  in  a  great  whisper  with  another  that 

sat  next  him,  and  pointing  to  me.     If  Mr.  D 

had  not  been  so  nice  in  discovering  his  name, 
you  would  quickly  have  been  cured  of  your 
jealousy.  Never  believe  I  have  a  servant  that 
I  do  not  tell  you  of  as  soon  as  I  know  it  myself. 
As,  for  example,  my  brother  Peyton  has  sent  to 
me,  for  a  countryman  of  his,  Sir  John  Tufton, — - 


The  Last  of  Chicksands.  253 

he  married  one  of  my  Lady  Wotton's  heirs,  who 
is  lately  dead, — and  to  invite  me  to  think  of  it. 
Besides  his  person  and  his  fortune,  without  excep- 
tion, he  tells  me  what  an  excellent  husband  he 
was  to  this  lady  that's  dead,  who  was  but  a 
crooked,  ill-favoured  woman,  only  she  brought 
him  ^1500  a  year.  I  tell  him  I  believe  Sir  John 
Tufton  could  be  content,  I  were  so  too  upon  the 
same  terms.  But  his  loving  his  first  wife  can  be 
no  argument  to  persuade  me  ;  for  if  he  had  loved 
her  as  he  ought  to  do,  I  cannot  hope  he  should 
love  another  so  well  as  I  expect  anybody  should 
that  has  me ;  and  if  he  did  not  love  her,  I  have 
less  to  expect  he  should  me.  I  do  not  care  for 
a  divided  heart ;  I  must  have  all  or  none,  at  least 
the  first  place  in  it.  Poor  James,  I  have  broke 
his.  He  says  'twould  pity  you  to  hear  what  sad 
complaints  he  makes ;  and,  but  that  he  has  not 
the  heart  to  hang  himself,  he  would  be  very  well 
contented  to  be  out  of  the  world. 

That  house  of  your  cousin   R is  fatal  to 

physicians.  Dr.  Smith  that  took  it  is  dead 
already  ;  but  maybe  this  was  before  you  went, 
and  so  is  no  news  to  you.  I  shall  be  sending 
you  all  I  hear ;  which,  though  it  cannot  be  much, 
living  as  I  do,  yet  it  may  be  more  than  ventures 
into  Ireland.  I  would  have  you  diverted,  whilst 
you  are  there,  as  much  as  possible;  but  not 
enough  to  tempt  you  to  stay  one  minute  longer 
than  your  father  and  your  business  obliges  you. 
Alas !  I  have  already  repented  all  my  share  in 
your  journey,  and  begin  to  find  I  am  not  half 


254  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

so  valiant  as  I  sometimes  take  myself  to  be.  The 
knowledge  that  our  interests  are  the  same,  and 
that  I  shall  be  happy  or  unfortunate  in  your 
person  as  much  or  more  than  in  my  own,  does  not 
give  me  that  confidence  you  speak  of.  It  rather 
increases  my  doubts,  and  I  durst  trust  your 
fortune  alone,  rather  than  now  that  mine  is 
joined  with  it.  Yet  I  will  hope  yours  may  be  so 
good  as  to  overcome  the  ill  of  mine,  and  shall 
endeavour  to  mend  my  own  all  I  can  by  striving 
to  deserve  it,  maybe,  better.  My  dearest,  will 
you  pardon  me  that  I  am  forced  to  leave  you 
so  soon  ?  The  next  shall  be  longer,  though  I  can 
never  be  more  than  I  am 

Yours. 


Letter^. — This  sad  letter,  fully  dated  i8th  March 
1654,  was  written  after  Sir  Peter  Osborne  was  buried 
in  Campton  Church.  Even  as  Dorothy  wrote  this,  the 
stone-mason  might  be  slowly  carving  words  that  may 
be  read  to  this  day  :  "  The  maintainer  of  divine  exercises, 
the  friend  to  the  poor."  Her  father  is  no  longer  living, 
and  she  is  now  even  more  lonely  than  before.  To 
depend  upon  kindred  that  are  not  friends,  to  be  under 
the  protection  of  a  brother  who  is  her  lover's  avowed 
enemy,  this  is  her  lot  in  life,  unless  Temple  can  release 
her  from  it.  Alas  !  poor  Dorothy,  who  will  now  forbear 
to  pity  you  ? 

March  the  iSt/i,  1654. 

How  true  it  is  that  a  misfortune  never  comes 
single  ;  we  live  in  expectation  of  some  one  happi- 
ness that  we  propose  to  ourselves,  an  age  almost, 


The  Last  of  Chicksands.  255 

and  perhaps  miss  it  at  the  last ;  but  sad  accidents 
have  wings  to  overtake  us,  and  come  in  flocks 
like  ill-boding  ravens.  You  were  no  sooner  gone 
but  (as  if  that  had  not  been  enough)  I  lost  the 
best  father  in  the  world  ;  and  though,  as  to  him- 
self, it  was  an  infinite  mercy  in  God  Almighty  to 
take  him  out  of  a  world  that  can  be  pleasing  to 
none,  and  was  made  more  uneasy  to  him  by  many 
infirmities  that  were  upon  him,  yet  to  me  it  is 
an  affliction  much  greater  than  people  judge  it. 
Besides  all  that  is  due  to  nature  and  the  memory 
of  many  (more  than  ordinary)  kindnesses  received 
from  him,  besides  what  he  was  to  all  that  knew 
him,  and  what  he  was  to  me  in  particular,  I  am 
left  by  his  death  in  the  condition  (which  of  all 
others)  is  the  most  unsupportable  to  my  nature, 
to  depend  upon  kindred  that  are  not  friends,  and 
that,  though  I  pay  as  much  as  I  should  do  to  a 
stranger,  yet  think  they  do  me  a  courtesy.  I 
expect  my  eldest  brother  to-day;  if  he  comes, 
I  shall  be  able  to  tell  you  before  I  seal  this  up 
where  you  are  likely  to  find  me.  If  he  offers  me 
to  stay  here,  this  hole  will  be  more  agreeable  to 
my  humour  than  any  place  that  is  more  in  the 
world.  I  take  it  kindly  that  you  used  art  to 
conceal  our  story  and  satisfy  my  nice  apprehen- 
sions, but  I'll  not  impose  that  constraint  upon 
you  any  longer,  for  I  find  my  kind  brother 
publishes  it  with  more  earnestness  than  ever  I 
strove  to  conceal  it ;  and  with  more  disadvantage 
than  anybody  else  would.  Now  he  has  tried  all 
ways  to  do  what  he  desires,  and  finds  it  is  in  vain, 


256  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

he  resolves  to  revenge  himself  upon  me,  by 
representing  this  action  in  such  colours  as  will 
amaze  all  people  that  know  me,  and  do  not  know 
him  enough  to  discern  his  malice  to  me;  he 
is  not  able  to  forbear  showing  it  now,  when 
my  condition  deserves  pity  from  all  the  world, 
I  think,  and  that  he  himself  has  newly  lost 
a  father,  as  well  as  I ;  but  takes  this  time  to 
torment  me,  which  appears  (at  least  to  me)  so 
barbarous  a  cruelty,  that  though  I  thank  God  I 
have  charity  enough  perfectly  to  forgive  all  the 
injury  he  can  do  me,  yet  I  am  afraid  I  shall  never 
look  upon  him  as  a  brother  more.  And  now  do 
you  judge  whether  I  am  not  very  unhappy,  and 
whether  that  sadness  in  my  face  you  used  to 
complain  of  was  not  suited  to  my  fortune.  You 
must  confess  it ;  and  that  my  kindness  for  you  is 
beyond  example,  all  these  troubles  are  persecu- 
tions that  make  me  weary  of  the  world  before  my 
time,  and  lessen  the  concernment  I  have  for  you, 
and  instead  of  being  persuaded  as  they  would 
have  me  by  their  malicious  stories,  methinks  I 
am  obliged  to  love  you  more  in  recompense  of  all 
the  injuries  they  have  done  you  upon  my  score. 
I  shall  need  nothing  but  my  own  heart  to  fortify 
me  in  this  resolution,  and  desire  nothing  in  return 
of  it  but  that  your  care  of  yourself  may  answer 
to  that  which  I  shall  always  have  for  your 
interests. 

I  received  your  letter  of  the  loth  of  this  month  ; 
and  I  hope  this  will  find  you  at  your  journey's 
end.  In  earnest,  I  have  pitied  your  sister 


The  Last  of  Chicksands,  257 

extremely,  and  can  easily  apprehend  how  trouble- 
some this  voyage  must  needs  be  to  her,  by  know- 
ing what  others  have  been  to  me ;  yet,  pray 
assure  her  I  would  not  scruple  at  undertaking  it 
myself  to  gain  such  an  acquaintance,  and  would 
go  much  farther  than  where  (I  hope)  she  now  is 
to  serve  her.  I  am  afraid  she  will  not  think  me 
a  fit  person  to  choose  for  a  friend,  that  cannot 
agree  with  my  own  brother;  but  I  must  trust 
you  to  tell  my  story  for  me,  and  will  hope  for  a 
better  character  from  you  than  he  gives  me-;  who, 
lest  I  should  complain,  resolves  to  prevent  me, 
and  possess  my  friends  first  that  he  is  the  injured 
party.  I  never  magnified  my  patience  to  you, 
but  I  begin  to  have  a  good  opinion  on't  since 
this  trial ;  yet,  perhaps,  I  have  no  reason,  and 
it  may  be  as  well  a  want  of  sense  in  me  as  of 
passion ;  however,  you  will  not  be  displeased  to 
know  that  I  can  endure  all  that  he  or  anybody 
else  can  say,  and  that  setting  aside  my  father's 
death  and  your  absence,  I  make  nothing  an 
affliction  to  me,  though  I  am  sorry,  I  confess, 
to  see  myself  forc'd  to  keep  such  distances  with 
one  of  his  relations,  because  religion  and  nature 
and  the  custom  of  the  world  teaches  otherwise. 
I  see  I  shall  not  be  able  to  satisfy  you  in  this 
how  I  shall  dispose  of  myself,  for  my  brother 
is  not  come ;  the  next  will  certainly  tell  you. 
In  the  meantime,  I  expect  with  great  impatience 
to  hear  of  your  safe  arrival.  'Twas  a  disappoint- 
ment that  you  missed  those  fair  winds.  I  pleased 
myself  extremely  with  a  belief  that  they  had 


258  Letters  from  Dorothy  Os  borne. 

made  your  voyage  rather  a  diversion  than  a 
trouble,  either  to  you  or  your  company,  but  I 
hope  your  passage  was  as  happy,  if  not  as  sudden, 
as  you  expected  it ;  let  me  hear  often  from  you, 
and  long  letters.  I  do  not  count  this  so.  Have 
no  apprehensions  from  me,  but  all  the  care  of 
yourself  that  you  please.  My  melancholy  has  no 
anger  in  it ;  and  I  believe  the  accidents  of  my 
life  would  work  more  upon  any  other  than  they 
do  upon  me,  whose  humour  is  alway  more 
prepared  for  them  than  that  of  gayer  persons. 
I  hear  nothing  that  is  worth  your  knowing ;  when 
I  do,  you  shall  know  it.  Tell  me  if  there's  any- 
thing I  can  do  for  you,  and  assure  yourself  I  am 
perfectly 

Yours. 


Letter  56. — Temple  has  reached  Dublin  at  last,  and 
begins  to  write  from  there.  This  letter  also  is  dated, 
and  from  this  time  forth  there  is  less  trouble  in  arrang- 
ing the  letters  in  order  of  date,  as  many  of  them  have, 
at  least,  the  day  of  the  month,  if  nothing  more. 

The  Marquis  of  Hertford  was  the  Duke  of  Somerset's 
great-grandson.  He  married  Lady  Arabella  Stuart, 
daughter  of  Charles  Stuart,  Earl  of  Lennox,  uncle  of 
King  James  I.,  for  which  matrimonial  adventure  he  was 
imprisoned  in  the  Tower.  His  second  wife  was  Frances, 
daughter  of  Robert,  Earl  of  Essex,  and  sister  to  the 
great  general  of  the  Parliamentary  Army.  She  was 
the  mother  of  young  Lord  Beauchamp,  whose  death 
Dorothy  deplores.  He  was  twenty-eight  years  of  age 
when  he  died.  He  married  Mary,  daughter  of  Lord 
Capel  of  Hadham,  who  afterwards  married  the  Duke 
of  Beaufort. 


The  Last  of  CJiicksands.  259 

Baptist  Noel,  Viscount  Camden,  was  a  noted  loyalist. 
After  the  Restoration  we  find  him  appointed  Lord- 
Lieutenant  of  Rutland.  Of  his  duel  with  Mr.  Stafford 
there  seems  to  be  no  account.  It  did  not  carry  him 
into  the  King's  Bench  Court,  like  Lord  Chandos'  duel, 
so  history  is  silent  about  it. 

April  the  2nd,  1654. 

SIR,  —  There  was  never  any  lady  more  sur- 
prised than  I  was  with  your  last.  I  read  it 
so  coldly,  and  was  so  troubled  to  find  that 
you  were  so  forward  on  your  journey ;  but 
when  I  came  to  the  last,  and  saw  Dublin  at 
the  date,  I  could  scarce  believe  my  eyes.  In 
earnest,  it  transported  me  so  that  I  could  not 
forbear  expressing  my  joy  in  such  a  manner 
as  had  anybody  been  by  to  have  observed  me 
they  would  have  suspected  me  no  very  sober 
person. 

You  are  safe  arrived,  you  say,  and  pleased  with 
the  place  already,  only  because  you  meet  with  a 
letter  of  mine  there.  In  your  next  I  expect  some 
other  commendation  on't,  or  else  I  shall  hardly 
make  such  haste  to  it  as  people  here  believe  I 
will. 

All  the  servants  have  been  to  take  their  leaves 
on  me,  and  say  how  sorry  they  are  to  hear  I  am 
going  out  of  the  land  ;  some  beggar  at  the  door 
has  made  so  ill  a  report  of  Ireland  to  them  that 
they  pity  me  extremely,  but  you  are  pleased,  I 
hope,  to  hear  I  am  coming  to  you ;  the  next  fair 
wind  expect  me.  'Tis  not  to  be  imagined  the 


260  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osbornc. 

ridiculous  stones  they  have  made,  nor  how  J.  B. 
cries  out  on  me  for  refusing  him  and  choosing 
his  chamber-fellow ;  yet  he  pities  me  too,  and 
swears  I  am  condemned  to  be  the  miserablest 
person  upon  earth.  With  all  his  quarrel  to  me, 
he  does  not  wish  me  so  ill  as  to  be  married  to  the 
proudest,  imperious,  insulting,  ill-natured  man  that 
ever  was ;  one  that  before  he  has  had  me  a  week 
shall  use  me  with  contempt,  and  believe  that  the 
favour  was  of  his  side.  Is  not  this  very  comfort- 
able ?  But,  pray,  make  it  no  quarrel ;  I  make  it 
none,  I  assure  you.  And  though  he  knew  you 
before  I  did,  I  do  not  think  he  knows  you  so 
well ;  besides  that,  his  testimony  is  not  of  much 
value. 

I  am  to  spend  this  next  week  in  taking  leave 
of  this  country,  and  all  the  company  in't,  perhaps 
never  to  see  it  more.  From  hence  I  must  go 
into  Northamptonshire  to  my  Lady  Ruthin,  and 
so  to  London,  where  I  shall  find  my  aunt  and  my 
brother  Peyton,  betwixt  whom  I  think  to  divide 
this  summer. 

Nothing  has  happened  since  you  went  worth 
your  knowledge.  My  Lord  Marquis  Hertford 
has  lost  his  son,  my  Lord  Beauchamp,  who  has 
left  a  fine  young  widow.  In  earnest,  'tis  great 
pity ;  at  the  rate  of  our  young  nobility  he  was 
an  extraordinary  person,  and  remarkable  for  an 
excellent  husband.  My  Lord  Cambden,  too,  has 
fought  with  Mr.  Stafford,  but  there's  no  harm 
done.  You  may  discern  the  haste  I'm  in  by  my 
writing.  There  will  come  a  time  for  a  long  letter 


The  Last  of  Chicksands.  261 

again,  but  there  will  never  come  any  wherein   I 
shall  not  be 

Yours. 

[Sealed  with  black  wax,  and  directed] 
For  Mr.  William  Temple, 

at  Sir  John  Temple's  home 

in  Damask  Street, 

Dublin. 

Thus  Dorothy  leaves  Chicksands,  her  last  words  from 
her  old  home  to  Temple  breathing  her  love  and  affection 
for  him.  It  is  no  great  sorrow  at  the  moment  to  leave 
Chicksands,  for  its  latest  memories  are  scenes  of  sick- 
ness, grief,  and  death.  And  now  the  only  home  on 
earth  for  Dorothy  lies  in  the  future  ;  it  is  not  a  par- 
ticular spot  on  earth,  but  to  be  by  his  side,  wherever 
that  may  be. 


CHAPTER    VI. 

VISITING.       SUMMER    1654. 

THIS  chapter  opens  with  a  portion  of  a  letter  written  by 
Sir  William  Temple  to  his  mistress,  dated  Ireland,  May 
1 8,  1654.  It  is  the  only  letter,  or  rather  scrap  of  letter, 
which  we  have  of  his,  and  by  some  good  chance  it  has 
survived  with  the  rest  of  Dorothy's  letters.  It  will,  I 
think,  throw  great  light  on  his  character  as  a  lover, 
showing  him  to  have  been  ardent  and  ecstatic  in  his 
suit,  making  quite  clear  Dorothy's  wisdom  in  insisting, 
as  she  often  does,  on  the  necessity  of  some  more  material 
marriage  portion  than  mere  love  and  hope.  His  refer- 
ence to  the  "  unhappy  differences  "  strengthens  my  view 
that  the  letters  of  the  former  chapter  belong  all  to  one 
date. 

Letter  57. — Letter  of  Sir  William  Temple. 

May  i8t/i,  1654. 

...  I  am  called  upon  for  my  letter,  but  must 
have  leave  first  to  remember  you  of  yours.  For 
God's  sake  write  constantly  while  I  am  here,  or  I 
am  undone  past  all  recovery.  I  have  lived  upon 
them  ever  since  I  came,  but  had  thrived  much 
better  had  they  been  longer.  Unless  you  use  to 
give  me  better  measure,  I  shall  not  be  in  case  to 


Visiting.  263 

undertake  a  journey  to  England.  The  despair  I 
was  in  at  not  hearing  from  you  last  week,  and  the 
belief  that  all  my  letters  had  miscarried  (by  some 
treachery  among  my  good  friends  who,  I  am 
sorry,  have  the  name  of  yours),  made  me  press 
my  father  by  all  means  imaginable  to  give  me 
leave  to  go  presently  if  I  heard  not  from  you 
this  post.  But  he  would  never  yield  to  that, 
because,  he  said,  upon  your  silence  he  should 
suspect  all  was  not  likely  to  be  well  between  us, 
and  then  he  was  sure  I  should  not  be  in  condition 
to  be  alone.  He  remembered  too  well  the  letters 
I  writ  upon  our  last  unhappy  differences,  and 
would  not  trust  me  from  him  in  such  another 
occasion.  But,  withal,  he  told  me  he  would  never 
give  me  occasion  of  any  discontent  which  he  could 
remedy ;  that  if  you  desired  my  coming  over,  and 
I  could  not  be  content  without,  he  would  not 
hinder  me,  though  he  very  much  desired  my 
company  a  month  or  two  longer,  and  that  in 
that  time  'twas  very  likely  I  might  have  his  as 
well. 

Now,  in  very  good  earnest,  do  you  think  'tis 
time  for  me  to  come  or  no  ?  Would  you  be  very 
glad  to  see  me  there,  and  could  you  do  it  in  less 
disorder,  and  with  less  surprise,  than  you  did  at 
Chicksands  ? 

I  ask  you  these  questions  very  seriously ;  but 
yet  how  willingly  would  I  venture  all  to  be  with 
you.  I  know  you  love  me  still ;  you  promised 
me,  and  that's  all  the  security  I  can  have  in  this 
world.  'Tis  that  which  makes  all  things  else 


264  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osbornc. 

seem  nothing  to  it,  so  high  it  sets  me ;  and  so 
high,  indeed,  that  should  I  ever  fall  'twould  dash 
me  all  to  pieces.  Methinks  your  very  chanty 
should  make  you  love  me  more  now  than  ever, 
by  seeing  me  so  much  more  unhappy  than  I  used, 
by  being  so  much  farther  from  you,  for  that  is  all 
the  measure  can  be  taken  of  my  good  or  ill  con- 
dition. Justice,  I  am  sure,  will  oblige  you  to  it, 
since  you  have  no  other  means  left  in  the  world 
of  rewarding  such  a  passion  as  mine,  which,  sure, 
is  of  a  much  richer  value  than  anything  in  the 
world  besides.  Should  you  save  my  life  again, 
should  you  make  me  absolute  master  of  your 
fortune  and  your  person  too,  I  should  accept 
none  of  all  this  in  any  part  of  payment,  but  look 
upon  you  as  one  behindhand  with  me  still.  'Tis 
no  vanity  this,  but  a  true  sense  of  how  pure  and 
how  refined  a  nature  my  passion  is,  which  none 
can  ever  know  except  my  own  heart,  unless  you 
find  it  out  by  being  there. 

How  hard  it  is  to  think  of  ending  when  I  am 
writing  to  you ;  but  it  must  be  so,  and  I  must 
ever  be  subject  to  other  people's  occasions,  and 
so  never,  I  think,  master  of  my  own.  This  is  too 
true,  both  in  respect  of  this  fellow's  post  that  is 
bawling  at  me  for  my  letter,  and  of  my  father's 
delays.  They  kill  me ;  but  patience, — would  any- 
body but  I  were  here !  Yet  you  may  command 
me  ever  at  one  minute's  warning.  Had  I  not 
heard  from  you  by  this  last,  in  earnest  I  had 
resolved  to  have  gone  with  this,  and  given  my 
father  the  slip  for  all  his  caution.  He  tells  me 


Visiting.  265 

still  of  a  little  time ;  but,  alas  !  who  knows  not 
what  mischances  and  how  great  changes  have 
often  happened  in  a  little  time  ? 

For  God's  sake  let  me  hear  of  all  your  motions, 
when  and  where  I  may  hope  to  see  you.  Let  us 
but  hope  this  cloud,  this  absence  that  has  overcast 
all  my  contentment,  may  pass  away,  and  I  am 
confident  there's  a  clear  sky  attends  us.  My 
dearest  dear,  adieu. 

Yours. 

Pray,  where  is  your  lodging  ?  Have  a  care  of 
all  the  despatch  and  security  that  can  be  in  our 
intelligence.  Remember  my  fellow-servant ;  sure, 
by  the  next  I  shall  write  some  learned  epistle  to 
her,  I  have  been  so  long  about  it. 

Letter  58. — Dorothy  is  now  in  London,  staying  pro- 
bably with  that  aunt  whom  she  mentioned  before  as 
one  who  was  always  ready  to  find  her  a  husband  other 
than  Temple.  Of  the  plot  against  the  Protector  in 
which  my  Lord  of  Dorchester  is  said  to  be  engaged,  an 
account  is  given  in  connection  with  Letter  59 ;  that  is, 
presuming  it  to  be  the  same  plot,  and  that  Lord 
Dorchester  is  one  of  the  many  persons  arrested  under 
suspicion  of  being  concerned  in  it.  I  cannot  find  any- 
thing which  identifies  him  with  a  special  plot. 

Lady  Sandis  [Sandys],  who  seems  so  fond  of  race 
meetings  and  other  less  harmless  amusements,  was  the 
wife  of  William  Lord  Sandys,  and  daughter  of  the  Earl 
of  Salisbury.  Lord  Sandys'  country  house  was  Motes- 
font  or  Mottisfont  Priory,  in  Hampshire,  "  which  the 
King  had  given  him  in  exchange  for  Chelsea,  in  West- 
minster." So  says  Leland,  the  antiquary  and  scholar,  in 


266  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

his  Itinerary;  but  it  is  a  little  puzzling  to  the  modern 
mind  with  preconceived  notions  of  Chelsea,  to  hear  it 
spoken  of  as  a  seat  or  estate  in  Westminster.  Colonel 
Tom  Paunton  is  to  me  merely  a  name  ;  and  J.  Morton 
is  nothing  more,  unless  we  may  believe  him  to  be  Sir 
John  Morton,  Bart  of  Milbourne,  St.  Andrew,  in  Not- 
tinghamshire. This  addition  of  a  local  habitation  and  a 
name  gives  us  no  further  knowledge,  however,  of  the 
scandal  to  which  Dorothy  alludes. 

Mistress  Stanley  and  Mistress  Witherington  have  left 
no  trace  of  their  identity  that  I  can  find,  but  Mistress 
Philadelphia  Carey  is  not  wholly  unknown.  She  was 
the  second  daughter  of  Thomas  Carey,  one  of  the  Earl 
of  Monmouth's  sons,  and  readers  may  be  pleased  to 
know  that  she  did  marry  Sir  Henry  Littleton. 

Of  the  scandal  concerning  Lord  Rich  I  am  not  sorry 
to  know  nothing. 

May  2^th  [1654]. 

THIS  world  is  composed  of  nothing  but  con- 
trarieties and  sudden  accidents,  only  the  propor- 
tions are  not  at  all  equal ;  for  to  a  great  measure 
of  trouble  it  allows  so  small  a  quantity  of  joy,  that 
one  may  see  'tis  merely  intended  to  keep  us  alive 
withal.  This  is  a  formal  preface,  and  looks  as  if 
there  were  something  of  very  useful  to  follow  ;  but 
I  would  not  wish  you  to  expect  it.  I  was  only 
considering  my  own  ill-humour  last  night,  I  had 
not  heard  from  you  in  a  week  or  more,  my  brother 
had  been  with  me  and  we  had  talked  ourselves 
both  out  of  breath  and  patience  too,  I  was  not  very 
well,  and  rose  this  morning  only  because  I  was 
weary  of  lying  in  bed.  When  I  had  dined  I  took 
a  coach  and  went  to  see  whether  there  was  ever 
a  letter  for  me,  and  was  this  once  so  lucky  as  to 


Visiting.  267 

find  one.  I  am  not  partial  to  myself  I  know,  and 
am  contented  that  the  pleasure  I  have  received 
with  this,  shall  serve  to  sweeten  many  sad  thoughts 
that  have  interposed  since  your  last,  and  more 
that  I  may  reasonably  expect  before  I  have 
another ;  and  I  think  I  may  (without  vanity)  say, 
that  nobody  is  more  sensible  of  the  least  good 
fortune  nor  murmurs  less  at  an  ill  than  I  do, 
since  I  owe  it  merely  to  custom  and  not  to  any 
constancy  in  my  humour,  or  something  that  is 
better.  No,  in  earnest,  anything  of  good  comes 
to  me  like  the  sun  to  the  inhabitants  of  Green- 
land, it  raises  them  to  life  when  they  see  it,  and 
when  they  miss  it,  it  is  not  strange  they  expect 
a  night  of  half  a  year  long. 

You  cannot  imagine  how  kindly  I  take  it  that 
you  forgive  my  brother,  and  let  me  assure  you 
I  shall  never  press  you  to  anything  unreasonable. 
I  will  not  oblige  you  to  court  a  person  that  has 
injured  you.  I  only  beg  that  whatsoever  he  does 
in  that  kind  may  be  excused  by  his  relation  to 
me,  and  that  whenever  you  are  moved  to  think 
he  does  you  wrong,  you  will  at  the  same  time 
remember  that  his  sister  loves  you  passionately 
and  nobly  ;  that  if  he  values  nothing  but  fortune, 
she  despises  it,  and  could  love  you  as  much  a 
beggar  as  she  could  do  a  prince  ;  and  shall  with- 
out question  love  you  eternally,  but  whether  with 
any  satisfaction  to  herself  or  you  is  a  sad  doubt. 
I  am  not  apt  to  hope,  and  whether  it  be  the  better 
or  the  worse  I  know  not.  All  sorts  of  differences 
are  natural  to  me,  and  that  which  (if  your  kind- 


268  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

ness  would  give  you  leave)  you  would  term  a 
weakness  in  me  is  nothing  but  a  reasonable 
distrust  of  my  own  judgment,  which  makes  me 
desire  the  approbation  of  my  friends.  I  never 
had  the  confidence  in  my  life  to  presume  anything 
well  done  that  I  had  nobody's  opinion  in  but  my 
own  ;  and  as  you  very  well  observe,  there  are  so 
many  that  think  themselves  wise  when  nothing 
equals  their  folly  but  their  pride,  that  I  dread 
nothing  so  much  as  discovering  such  a  thought  in 
myself  because  of  the  consequences  of  it. 

Whenever  you  come  you  must  not  doubt  your 
welcome,  but  I  can  promise  you  nothing  for  the 
manner  on't.  I  am  afraid  my  surprise  and  dis- 
order will  be  more  than  ever.  I  have  good 
reason  to  think  so,  and  none  that  you  can  take  ill. 
But  I  would  not  have  you  attempt  it  till  your 
father  is  ready  for  the  journey  too.  No,  really  he 
deserves  that  all  your  occasions  should  wait  for  his  ; 
and  if  you  have  not  much  more  than  an  ordinary 
obedience  for  him,  I  shall  never  believe  you  have 
more  than  an  ordinary  kindness  for  me  ;  since  (if 
you  will  pardon  me  the  comparison)  I  believe  we 
both  merit  it  from  you  upon  the  same  score,  he  as  a 
very  indulgent  father,  and  I  as  a  very  kind  mistress. 
Don't  laugh  at  me  for  commending  myself,  you 
will  never  do  it  for  me,  and  so  I  am  forced  to  it. 

I  am  still  here  in  town,  but  had  no  hand,  I  can 
assure  you,  in  the  new  discovered  plot  against  the 
Protector.  But  my  Lord  of  Dorchester,  they  say, 
has,  and  so  might  I  have  had  if  I  were  as  rich  as 
he,  and  then  you  might  have  been  sure  of  me  at 


Visiting.  269 

the  Tower ; — now  a  worse  lodging  must  serve  my 
turn.  'Tis  over  against  Salisbury  House  where  I 
have  the  honour  of  seeing  my  Lady  M.  Sandis 
every  day  unless  some  race  or  other  carry  her  out 
of  town.  The  last  week  she  went  to  one  as  far 
as  Winchester  with  Col.  Paunton  (if  you  know 
such  a  one),  and  there  her  husband  met  her,  and 
because  he  did  so  (though  it  'twere  by  accident) 
thought  himself  obliged  to  invite  her  to  his  house 
but  seven  miles  off,  and  very  modestly  said  no 
more  for  it,  but  that  he  thought  it  better  than  an 
Inn,  or  at  least  a  crowded  one  as  all  in  the  town 
were  now  because  of  the  race.  But  she  was  so 
good  a  companion  that  she  would  not  forsake  her 
company,  So  he  invited  them  too,  but  could 
prevail  with  neither.  Only  my  Lady  grew  kind 
at  parting  and  said,  indeed  if  Tom  Paunton  and 
J.  Morton  and  the  rest  would  have  gone  she 
could  have  been  contented  to  have  taken  his 
offer.  Thus  much  for  the  married  people,  now 
for  those  that  are  towards  it. 

There  is  Mr.  Stanley  and  Mrs.  Witherington  ; 
Sir  H.  Littleton  and  Mrs.  Philadelphia  Carey, 
who  in  earnest  is  a  fine  woman,  such  a  one  as 
will  make  an  excellent  wife  ;  and  some  say  my 
Lord  Rich  and  my  Lady  Betty  Howard,  but 
others  that  pretend  to  know  more  say  his  court 
to  her  is  but  to  countenance  a  more  serious  one  to 
Mrs.  Howard,  her  sister-in-law,  he  not  having 
courage  to  pretend  so  openly  (as  some  do)  to 
another's  wife.  Oh,  but  your  old  acquaintance, 
poor  Mr.  Heningham,  has  no  luck  !  He  was  so 


270  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osbornc. 

near  (as  he  thought  at  least)  marrying  Mrs.  Ger- 
herd  that  anybody  might  have  got  his  whole  estate 
in  wagers  upon't  that  would  have  ventured  but  a 
reasonable  proportion  of  their  own.  And  now  he 
looks  more  like  an  ass  than  ever  he  did.  She 
has  cast  him  off  most  unhandsomely,  that's  the 
truth  on't,  and  would  have  tied  him  to  such  con- 
ditions as  he  might  have  been  her  slave  withal, 
but  could  never  be  her  husband.  Is  not  this  a 
great  deal  of  news  for  me  that  never  stir  abroad  ? 
Nay,  I  had  brought  me  to-day  more  than  all  this  : 
that  I  am  marrying  myself !  And  the  pleasantness 
on't  is  that  it  should  be  to  my  Lord  St.  John. 
Would  he  look  on  me,  think  you,  that  had  pretty 
Mrs.  Fretcheville  ?  My  comfort  is,  I  have  not 
seen  him  since  he  was  a  widower,  and  never 
spoke  to  him  in  my  life.  I  found  myself  so  inno- 
cent that  I  never  blushed  when  they  told  it  me. 
What  would  I  give  I  could  avoid  it  when  people 
speak  of  you  ?  In  earnest,  I  do  prepare  myself 
all  that  is  possible  to  hear  it  spoken  of,  yet  for 
my  life  I  cannot  hear  your  name  without  dis- 
covering that  I  am  more  than  ordinarily  concerned 
in't.  A  blush  is  the  foolishest  thing  that  can  be, 
and  betrays  one  more  than  a  red  nose  does  a 
drunkard ;  and  yet  I  would  not  so  wholly  have 
lost  them  as  some  women  that  I  know  has,  as 
much  injury  as  they  do  me. 

I  can  assure  you  now  that  I  shall  be  here  a 
fortnight  longer  (they  tell  me  no  lodger,  upon 
pain  of  his  Highness's  displeasure,  must  remove 
sooner) ;  but  when  I  have  his  leave  I  go  into 


Visiting.  2  7 1 

Suffolk  for  a  month,  and  then  come  hither  again 
to  go  into  Kent,  where  I  intend  to  bury  myself 
alive  again  as  I  did  in  Bedfordshire,  unless  you 
call  me  out  and  tell  me  I  may  be  happy.  Alas  ! 
how  fain  I  would  hope  it,  but  I  cannot,  and  should 
it  ever  happen,  'twould  be  long  before  I  should 
believe  'twas  meant  for  me  in  earnest,  or  that 
'twas  other  than  a  dream.  To  say  truth,  I  do 
not  love  to  think  on't,  I  find  so  many  things  to 
fear  and  so  few  to  hope. 

'Tis  better  telling  you  that  I  will  send  my 
letters  where  you  direct,  that  they  shall  be  as 
long  ones  as  possibly  my  time  will  permit,  and 
when  at  any  time  you  miss  of  one,  I  give  you 
leave  to  imagine  as  many  kind  things  as  you 
please,  and  to  believe  I  mean  them  all  to  you. 
Farewell. 


Letter  59. — It  is  a  little  astonishing  to  read,  as  one 
does  in  this  and  the  last  letter,  of  race  meetings,  and 
Dorothy,  habited  in  a  mask,  disporting  herself  at  New 
Spring  Gardens  or  in  the  Park.  It  opens  one's  eyes  to  the 
exaggerated  gloom  that  has  been  thrown  over  England 
during  the  Puritan  reign  by  those  historians  who  have 
derived  their  information  solely  from  State  papers  and 
proclamations.  It  is  one  thing  to  proclaim  amusements, 
another  to  abolish  them.  The  first  was  undoubtedly 
done,  but  we  doubt  if  there  was  ever  any  long-continued 
effort  to  do  the  last ;  and  in  the  latter  part  of  Cromwell's 
reign  the  gloom,  and  the  strait-laced  regulations  that 
caused  it,  must  have  almost  entirely  disappeared. 

Spring  Gardens  seems  at  one  time  to  have  had  no 
very  good  reputation.  Lady  Alice  Halkett,  writing  in 
1644,  tells  us  that  "so  scrupulous  was  I  of  giving  any 


272  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osbornc. 

occasion  to  speak  of  me  as  I  know  they  did  of  others, 
that  though  I  loved  well  to  see  plays,  and  to  walk  in 
the  Spring  Gardens  sometimes  (before  it  grew  some- 
thing scandalous  by  the  abuses  of  some),  yet  I  cannot 
remember  three  times  that  ever  I  went  with  any  man 
besides  my  brother."  However,  fashions  change  in  ten 
years,  and  Spring  Gardens  is,  doubtless,  now  quite 
demure  and  respectable,  or  we  should  not  find  Dorothy 
there.  Spring  Gardens  was  enclosed  and  laid  out 
towards  the  end  of  the  reign  of  James  I.  The  clump 
of  houses  which  still  bears  its  name  is  supposed  to 
indicate  its  position  with  tolerable  exactness.  Evelyn 
tells  us  that  Cromwell  shut  up  the  Spring  Gardens  in 
1600,  and  Knight  thinks  they  were  closed  until  the 
Restoration,  in  which  small  matter  we  may  allow 
Dorothy  to  correct  him.  The  fact  of  the  old  gardens 
having  been  closed  may  account  for  Dorothy  referring 
to  the  place  as  "  New  Spring  Gardens."  Knight  also 
quotes  at  second  hand  from  an  account  of  Spring 
Gardens,  complaining  that  the  author  is  unknown  to 
him.  This  quotation  is,  however,  from  one  of  Somers' 
Tracts  entitled  "A  Character  of  England  as  it  was 
lately  represented  in  a  Letter  to  a  Nobleman  of  France, 
1659."  The  Frenchman  by  whom  the  letter  is  written 
— probably  an  English  satirist  in  disguise — gives  us 
such  a  graphic  account  of  the  Parks  before  the  Restora- 
tion, that  as  the  matter  is  fresh  and  bears  upon  the 
subject,  I  have  no  hesitation  in  quoting  it  at  length : — 

"  I  did  frequently  in  the  spring  accompany  my 
Lord  N.  into  a  field  near  the  town  which  they  call 
Hyde  Park, — the  place  not  unpleasant,  and  which  they 
use  as  our  '  Course]  but  with  nothing  that  order, 
equipage,  and  splendour;  being  such  an  assembly  of 
wretched  jades  and  hackney  coaches,  as,  next  to  a 
regiment  of  car-men,  there  is  nothing  approaches  the 
resemblance.  The  Park  was,  it  seems,  used  by  the  late 
King  and  nobility  for  the  freshness  of  the  air  and  the 


Visiting.  273 

goodly  prospect,  but  it  is  that  which  now  (besides  all 
other  exercises)  they  pay  for  here  in  England,  though 
it  be  free  in  all  the  world  beside ;  every  coach  and  horse 
which  enters  buying  his  mouthful  and  permission  of 
the  publican  who  has  purchased  it,  for  which  the 
entrance  is  guarded  with  porters  and  long  staves. 

"  The  manner  is,  as  the  company  returns,  to  stop  at  the 
Spring  Gardens  so  called,  in  order  to  the  Park  as  our 
Thuilleries  is  to  the  Course ;  the  inclosure  not  disagree- 
able for  the  solemnness  of  the  groves,  the  warbling  of 
the  birds,  and  as  it  opens  into  the  spacious  walks  of 
St.  James.  But  the  company  walk  in  it  at  such  a  rate 
as  you  would  think  all  the  ladies  were  so  many  Atalantas 
contending  with  their  wooers,  and,  my  Lord,  there  was 
no  appearance  that  I  should  prove  the  Hippomenes, 
who  could  with  very  much  ado  keep  pace  with  them. 
But,  as  fast  as  they  run,  they  stay  there  so  long,  as  if 
they  wanted  not  to  finish  the  race,  for  it  is  usual  here 
to  find  some  of  the  young  company  till  midnight,  and 
the  thickets  of  the  garden  seem  to  be  contrived  to  all 
the  advantages  of  gallantry  after  they  have  refreshed 
with  the  collation,  which  is  here  seldom  omitted,  at  a 
certain  cabaret  in  the  middle  of  this  paradise,  where  the 
forbidden  fruits  are  certain  trifling  tarts,  neats'  tongues, 
salacious  meats,  and  bad  Rhenish,  for  which  the  gallants 
pay  sauce,  as  indeed  they  do  at  all  such  houses  through- 
out England  ;  for  they  think  it  a  piece  of  frugality 
beneath  them  to  bargain  or  account  for  what  they  eat 
in  any  place,  however  unreasonably  imposed  upon." 

Dorothy  is  quite  right  in  her  correction  concerning 
Will  Spencer.  He  was  the  first  Earl  of  Sunderland, 
and  married  Elizabeth,  daughter  of  Lord  Gerard. 

June  the  6th,  1654. 

I  SEE  you  know  how  to  punish  me.  In  earnest, 
I  was  so  frightened  with  your  short  letter  as  you 


274  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

cannot  imagine,  and  as  much  troubled  at  the 
cause  on't.  What  is  it  your  father  ails,  and  how 
long  has  he  been  ill  ?  If  my  prayers  are  heard, 
he  will  not  be  so  long.  Why  do  you  say  I  failed 
you?  Indeed,  I  did  not.  Jane  is  my  witness.  She 
carried  my  letter  to  the  White  Hart,  by  St.  James's, 
and  'twas  a  very  long  one  too.  I  carried  one  thither 
since,  myself,  and  the  woman  of  the  house  was  so 
very  angry,  because  I  desired  her  to  have  a  care 
on't,  that  I  made  the  coachman  drive  away  with  all 
possible  speed,  lest  she  should  have  beaten  me.  To 
say  truth,  I  pressed  her  too  much,  considering  how 
little  the  letter  deserved  it.  'Twas  writ  in  such  dis- 
order, the  company  prating  about  me,  and  some  of 
them  so  bent  on  doing  me  little  mischiefs,  that  I 
know  not  what  I  did,  and  believe  it  was  the  most 
senseless,  disjointed  thing  that  ever  was  read. 

I  remember  now  that  I  writ  Robin  Spencer 
instead  of  Will.  'Tis  he  that  has  married  Mrs. 
Gerherd,  and  I  admire  their  courage.  She  will 
have  eight  hundred  pounds  a  year,  'tis  true,  after 
her  mother's  death ;  but  how  they  will  live  till 
then  I  cannot  imagine.  I  shall  be  even  with  you 
for  your  short  letter.  I'll  swear  they  will  not 
allow  me  time  for  anything,  and  to  show  how 
absolutely  I  am  governed  I  need  but  tell  you  that 
I  am  every  night  in  the  Park  and  at  New  Spring 
Gardens,  where,  though  I  come  with  a  mask,  I 
cannot  escape  being  known,  nor  my  conversion 
being  admired.  Are  you  not  in  some  fear  what 
will  become  on  me?  These  are  dangerous  courses. 
I  do  not  find,  though,  that  they  have  altered  me 


Visiting.  275 

yet.     I  am  much  the  same  person  at  heart  I  was 
in  being  Yours. 

Letter  60. 

June  i^th  [1654]. 

You  have  satisfied  me  very  much  with  this  last 
long  letter,  and  made  some  amends  for  the  short 
one  I  received  before.  I  am  convinced,  too, 
happiness  is  much  such  a  kind  of  thing  as  you 
describe,  or  rather  such  a  nothing.  For  there  is 
no  one  thing  can  properly  be  called  so,  but  every 
one  is  left  to  create  it  to  themselves  in  something 
which  they  either  have  or  would  have ;  and  so  far 
it's  well  enough.  But  I  do  not  like  that  one's 
happiness  should  depend  upon  a  persuasion  that 
this  is  happiness,  because  nobody  knows  how 
long  they  shall  continue  in  a  belief  built  upon  no 
grounds,  only  to  bring  it  to  what  you  say,  and  to 
make  it  absolutely  of  the  same  nature  with  faith. 
We  must  conclude  that  nobody  can  either  create 
or  continue  such  a  belief  in  themselves ;  but 
where  it  is  there  is  happiness.  And  for  my  part 
at  this  present,  I  verily  believe  I  could  find  it  in 
the  long  walk  at  Dublin. 

You  say  nothing  of  your  father's  sickness, 
therefore  I  hope  he  is  well  again ;  for  though  I 
have  a  quarrel  to  him,  it  does  not  extend  so  far 
as  to  wish  him  ill.  But  he  made  no  good  return 
for  the  counsel  I  gave  you,  to  say  that  there 
might  come  a  time  when  my  kindness  might  fail. 
Do  not  believe  him,  I  charge  you,  unless  you 
doubt  yourself  that  you  may  give  me  occasion 


276  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborm. 

to  change ;  and  when  he  tells  you  so  again, 
engage  what  you  please  upon't,  and  put  it  upon 
my  account.  I  shall  go  out  of  town  this  week, 
and  so  cannot  possibly  get  a  picture  drawn  for 
you  till  I  come  up  again,  which  will  be  within 
these  six  weeks,  but  not  to  make  any  stay  at  all. 
I  should  be  glad  to  find  you  here  then.  I  would 
have  had  one  drawn  since  I  came,  and  consulted 
my  glass  every  morning  when  to  begin ;  and  to 
speak  freely  to  you  that  are  my  friend,  I  could 
never  find  my  face  in  a  condition  to  admit  on't, 
and  when  I  was  not  satisfied  with  it  myself,  I  had 
no  reason  to  hope  that  anybody  else  should.  But 
I  am  afraid,  as  you  say,  that  time  will  not  mend 
it,  and  therefore  you  shall  have  it  as  it  is  as  soon 
as  Mr.  Cooper  will  vouchsafe  to  take  the  pains 
to  draw  it  for  you. 

I  am  in  great  trouble  to  think  how  I  shall  write 
out  of  Suffolk  to  you,  or  receive  yours.  However, 
do  not  fail  to  write,  though  they  lie  awhile.  I 
shall  have  them  at  last,  and  they  will  not  be  the 
less  welcome ;  and,  though  you  should  miss  of 
some  of  mine,  let  it  not  trouble  you ;  but  if  it  be 
by  my  fault,  I'll  give  you  leave  to  demand  satis- 
faction for  it  when  you  come.  Jane  kisses  your 
hands,  and  says  she  will  be  ready  in  all  places 
to  do  you  service ;  but  I'll  prevent  her,  now  you 
have  put  me  into  a  jealous  humour.  I'll  keep 
her  in  chains  before  she  shall  quit  scores  with  me. 
Do  not  believe,  sir,  I  beseech  you,  that  the  young 
heirs  are  for  you ;  content  yourself  with  your  old 
mistress.  You  are  not  so  handsome  as  Will 


Visiting.  277 

Spencer,  nor  I  have  not  so  much  courage  nor 
wealth  as  his  mistress,  nor  she  has  not  so  much 
as  her  aunt  says  by  all  the  money.  I  should  not 
have  called  her  his  mistress  now  they  have  been 
married  almost  this  fortnight. 

I'll  write  again  before  I  leave  the  town,  and 
should  have  writ  more  now,  but  company  is  come 
in.  Adieu,  my  dearest. 


Letter  61. — Lady  Talmash  was  the  eldest  daughter  of 
Mr.  Murray,  Charles  I.'s  page  and  whipping  boy.  She 
married  Sir  Lionel  Talmash  of  Suffolk,  a  gentleman 
of  noble  family.  After  her  father's  death,  she  took 
the  title  of  Countess  of  Dysart,  although  there  was 
some  dispute  about  the  right  of  her  father  to  any  title. 
Bishop  Burnet  says  :  "  She  was  a  woman  of  great  beauty, 
but  of  far  greater  parts.  She  had  a  wonderful  quickness 
of  apprehension,  and  an  amazing  vivacity  in  conversa- 
tion. She  had  studied  not  only  divinity  and  history, 
but  mathematics  and  philosophy.  She  was  violent  in 
everything  she  set  about, — a  violent  friend,  but  a  much 
more  violent  enemy.  She  had  a  restless  ambition, 
lived  at  a  vast  expense,  and  was  ravenously  covetous  ; 
and  would  have  stuck  at  nothing  by  which  she  might 
compass  her  ends.  She  had  been  early  in  a  correspond- 
ence with  Lord  Lauderdale,  that  had  given  occasion  to 
censure.  When  he  was  a  prisoner  after  Worcester 
fight,  she  made  him  believe  he  was  in  great  danger  of 
his  life,  and  that  she  saved  it  by  her  intrigues  with 
Cromwell,  which  was  not  a  little  taken  notice  of. 
Cromwell  was  certainly  fond  of  her,  and  she  took 
care  to  entertain  him  in  it ;  till  he,  finding  what  was 
said  upon  it,  broke  it  off.  Upon  the  King's  Restoration 
she  thought  that  Lord  Lauderdale  made  not  those 
returns  she  expected.  They  lived  for  some  years  at  a 


278  Letter* from  Dorothy  O^borne. 

distance.  But  upon  her  husband's  death  she  made  up 
all  quarrels  ;  so  that  Lord  Lauderdale  and  she  lived  so 
much  together  that  his  Lady  was  offended  at  it  and 
went  to  Paris,  where  she  died  about  three  years  after." 
This  was  in  1672,  and  soon  afterwards  Lady  Dysart  and 
Lord  Lauderdale  were  married.  She  had  great  power 
over  him,  and  employed  it  in  trafficking  with  such  State 
patronage  as  was  in  Lord  Lauderdale's  power  to  bestow. 

Cousin  Hammond,  who  was  going  to  take  Ludlow's 
place  in  Ireland,  would  be  the  Colonel  Robert  Hammond 
who  commanded  Carisbrooke  when  the  King  was  im- 
prisoned there.  He  was  one  of  a  new  council  formed  in 
August  and  sent  into  Ireland  about  the  end  of  that  month. 

Lady  Vavasour  was  Ursula,  daughter  of  Walter 
Gifford  of  Chillington,  Staffordshire.  Her  husband  was 
Sir  Thomas  Vavasour,  Bart.  The  Vavasours  were  a 
Roman  Catholic  family,  and  claimed  descent  from  those 
who  held  the  ancient  office  of  King's  Valvasour  ;  and  we 
need  not  therefore  be  surprised  to  find  Lady  Vavasour 
engaged  in  one  of  the  numerous  plots  that  surrounded 
and  endangered  the  Protector's  power.  The  plot  itself 
seems  to  have  created  intense  excitement  in  the  capital, 
and  resulted  in  three  persons  being  tried  for  high 
treason,  and  two  executed, — John  Gerard,  gentleman, 
Peter  Vowel,  schoolmaster  of  Islington,  and  one  Sum- 
merset Fox,  who  pleaded  guilty,  and  whose  life  was 
spared.  "  Some  wise  men,"  writes  one  Thomas  Gower 
in  a  contemporary  letter  (still  unprinted),  "  believe  that  a 
couple  of  coy-ducks  drew  in  the  rest,  then  revealed  all, 
and  were  employed  to  that  purpose  that  the  execution 
of  a  few  mean  persons  might  deter  wiser  and  more  con- 
siderable persons."  This  seems  not  improbable.  On  June 
6th  the  official  Mercurius  Politicus  speaks  of  this  plot  as 
follows  : — "  The  traitorous  conspiracy  mentioned  hereto- 
fore it  appears  every  day  more  desperate  and  bloody.  It 
is  discovered  that  their  design  was  to  have  destroyed  his 
Highness's  person,  and  all  others  at  the  helm  of  Govern  • 


Visiting.  279 

ment  that  they  could  have  laid  hands  on.  Immediately 
upon  the  villainous  assassination,  they  intended  to  have 
proclaimed  Charles  Stuart  by  the  assistance  of  a  tumult," 
etc.  etc.  This  with  constant  accounts  of  further  arrests 
troubles  the  public  mind  at  this  time. 

The  passage  of  Cowley  which  Dorothy  refers  to  is 
in  the  second  book  of  Cowley's  Davideis.  It  opens 
with  a  description  of  the  friendship  between  David  and 
Jonathan,  and,  upon  that  occasion,  a  digression  con- 
cerning the  nature  of  love.  The  poem  was  written  by 
Cowley  when  a  young  man  at  Cambridge.  One  can 
picture  Dorothy  reading  and  musing  over  lines  like 
these  with  sympathy  and  admiration  : 

What  art  thou,  love,  thou  great  mysterious  thing  ? 
From  what  hid  stock  does  thy  strange  nature  spring  ? 
'Tis  thou  that  mov'st  the  world  through  ev'ry  part, 
And  hold'st  the  vast  frame  close  that  nothing  start 
From  the  due  place  and  office  first  ordained, 
By  thee  were  all  things  made  and  are  sustained. 
Sometimes  we  see  thee  fully  and  can  say 
From  hence  thou  took'st  thy  rise  and  went'st  that  way, 
But  oft'ner  the  short  beams  of  reason's  eye 
See  only  there  thou  art,  not  how,  nor  why. 

His  lines  on  love,  though  overcharged  with  quaint 
conceits,  are  often  noble  and  true,  and  end  at  least 
with  one  fine  couplet : 

Thus  dost  thou  sit  (like  men  e'er  sin  had  framed 
A  guilty  blush),  naked  but  not  ashamed. 

I  PROMISED  in  my  last  to  write  again  before 
I  went  out  of  town,  and  now  I'll  be  as  good 
as  my  word.  They  are  all  gone  this  morn- 
ing, and  have  left  me  much  more  at  liberty 
than  I  have  been  of  late,  therefore  I  believe  this 
will  be  a  long  letter ;  perhaps  too  long,  at  least 
if  my  letters  are  as  little  entertaining  as  my 


280  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

company  is.  I  was  carried  yesterday  abroad  to 
a  dinner  that  was  designed  for  mirth,  but  it 
seems  one  ill-humoured  person  in  the  company 
is  enough  to  put  all  the  rest  out  of  tune;  for  I 
never  saw  people  perform  what  they  intended 
worse,  and  could  not  forbear  telling  them  so  : 
but  to  excuse  themselves  and  silence  my  re- 
proaches, they  all  agreed  to  say  that  I  spoiled 
their  jollity  by  wearing  the  most  unreasonable 
looks  that  could  be  put  on  for  such  an  occasion. 
I  told  them  I  knew  no  remedy  but  leaving  me 
behind  next  time,  and  could  have  told  them  that 
my  looks  were  suitable  to  my  fortune,  though  not 
to  a  feast.  Fye  !  I  am  got  into  my  complaining 
humour  that  tires  myself  as  well  as  everybody 
else,  and  which  (as  you  observe)  helps  not  at  all. 
Would  it  would  leave  me,  and  then  I  could 
believe  I  shall  not  always  have  occasion  for  it. 
But  that's  in  nobody's  power,  and  my  Lady 
Talmash,  that  says  she  can  do  whatsoever  she 
will,  cannot  believe  whatsoever  she  pleases.  'Tis 
not  unpleasant,  methinks,  to  hear  her  talk,  how  at 
such  a  time  she  was  sick  and  the  physicians  told 
her  she  would  have  the  small-pox,  and  showed 
her  where  they  were  coming  out  upon  her ;  but 
she  bethought  herself  that  it  was  not  at  all  con- 
venient for  her  to  have  them  at  that  time  ;  some 
business  she  had  that  required  her  going  abroad, 
and  so  she  resolved  she  would  not  be  sick  ;  nor 
was  not.  Twenty  such  stories  as  these  she  tells  ; 
and  then  falls  into  discoveries  of  strength  of 
reason  and  the  power  of  philosophy,  till  she 


Visiting.  281 

confounds  herself  and  all  that  hear  her.  You 
have  no  such  ladies  in  Ireland  ? 

Oh  me,  but  I  heard  to  -  day  your  cousin 
Hammond  is  going  thither  to  be  in  Ludlow's 
place.  Is  it  true  ?  You  tell  me  nothing  what  is 
done  there,  but  'tis  no  matter.  The  less  one 
knows  of  State  affairs  I  find  it  is  the  better.  My 
poor  Lady  Vavasour  is  carried  to  the  Tower, 
and  her  great  belly  could  not  excuse  her,  because 
she  was  acquainted  by  somebody  that  there  was  a 
plot  against  the  Protector,  and  did  not  discover 
it.  She  has  told  now  all  that  was  told  her,  but 
vows  she  will  never  say  from  whence  she  had 
it :  we  shall  see  whether  her  resolutions  are  as 
unalterable  as  those  of  my  Lady  Talmash.  I 
wonder  how  she  behaved  herself  when  she  was 
married.  I  never  saw  any  one  yet  that  did  not 
look  simply  and  out  of  countenance,  nor  ever 
knew  a  wedding  well  designed  but  one ;  and  that 
was  of  two  persons  who  had  time  enough  I  con- 
fess to  contrive  it,  and  nobody  to  please  in't  but 
themselves.  He  came  down  into  the  country 
where  she  was  upon  a  visit,  and  one  morning 
married  her.  As  soon  as  they  came  out  of  the 
church  they  took  coach  and  came  for  the  town, 
dined  at  an  inn  by  the  way,  and  at  night  came 
into  lodgings  that  were  provided  for  them  where 
nobody  knew  them,  and  where  .they  passed  for 
married  people  of  seven  years'  standing. 

The  truth  is  I  could  not  endure  to  be  Mrs. 
Bride  in  a  public  wedding,  to  be  made  the  happiest 
person  on  earth.  Do  not  take  it  ill,  for  I  would 


282  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

endure  it  if  I  could,  rather  than  fail ;  but  in  earnest 
I  do  not  think  it  were  possible  for  me.  You 
cannot  apprehend  the  formalities  of  a  treaty  more 
than  I  do,  nor  so  much  the  success  on't.  Yet  in 
earnest,  your  father  will  not  find  my  brother 
Peyton  wanting  in  civility  (though  he  is  not  a 
man  of  much  compliment,  unless  it  be  in  his 
letters  to  me),  nor  an  unreasonable  person  in 
anything,  so  he  will  allow  him  out  of  his  kindness 
to  his  wife  to  set  a  higher  value  upon  her  sister 
than  she  deserves.  I  know  not  how  he  may  be 
prejudiced  as  to  the  business,  but  he  is  not  deaf 
to  reason  when  'tis  civilly  delivered,  and  is  as 
easily  gained  with  compliance  and  good  usage  as 
anybody  I  know,  but  by  no  other  way.  When  he 
is  roughly  dealt  with,  he  is  like  me,  ten  times  the 
worse  fort. 

I  make  it  a  case  of  conscience  to  discover  my 
faults  to  you  as  fast  as  I  know  them,  that  you 
may  consider  what  you  have  to  do.  My  aunt 
told  me  no  longer  agone  than  yesterday  that  I  was 
the  most  wilful  woman  that  ever  she  knew,  and 
had  an  obstinacy  of  spirit  nothing  could  overcome. 
Take  heed !  you  see  I  give  you  fair  warning. 

I  have  missed  a  letter  this  Monday  :  What  is 
the  reason  ?  By  the  next,  I  shall  be  gone  into 
Kent,  and  my  other  journey  is  laid  aside,  which 
I  am  not  displeased  at,  because  it  would  have 
broken  our  intercourse  very  much. 

Here  are  some  verses  of  Cowley's.  Tell  me  how 
you  like  them.  'Tis  only  a  piece  taken  out  of  a 
new  thing  of  his  ;  the  whole  is  very  long,  and  is 


Visiting.  283 

a  description  of,  or  rather  a  paraphrase  upon,  the 
friendship  of  David  and  Jonathan.  'Tis,  I  think, 
the  best  I  have  seen  of  his,  and  I  like  the  subject 
because  'tis  that  I  would  be  perfect  in.  Adieu. 

Je  suis  vostre. 

Letter  62. 

June  the  26th  [1654]. 

I  TOLD  you  in  my  last  that  my  Suffolk  journey 
was  laid  aside,  and  that  into  Kent  hastened.  I 
am  beginning  it  to-day ;  and  have  chosen  to  go 
as  far  as  Gravesend  by  water,  though  it  be  very 
gloomy  weather.  If  I  drown  by  the  way,  this 
will  be  my  last  letter  ;  and,  like  a  will,  I  bequeath 
all  my  kindness  to  you  in  it,  with  a  charge  never 
to  bestow  it  all  upon  another  mistress,  lest  my 
ghost  rise  again  and  haunt  you.  I  am  in  such 
haste  that  I  can  say  little  else  to  you  now.  When 
you  are  come  over,  weT  think  where  to  meet,  for 
at  this  distance  I  can  design  nothing ;  only  I 
should  be  as  little  pleased  with  the  constraint  of 
my  brother's  house  as  you.  Pray  let  me  know 
whether  your  man  leaves  you,  and  how  you  stand 
inclined  to  him  I  offer  you.  Indeed,  I  like  him 
extremely,  and  he  is  commended  to  me,  by  people 
that  know  him  very  well  and  are  able  to  judge, 
for  a  most  excellent  servant,  and  faithful  as 
possible.  I'll  keep  him  unengaged  till  I  hear 
from  you.  Adieu. 

My  next  shall  make  amends  for  this  short  one. 


284  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

\_P.S?\ — I  received  your  last  of  June  22nd  since 
I  sealed  up  my  letter,  and  I  durst  not  but  make 
an  excuse  for  another  short  one,  after  you  have 
chid  me  so  for  those  you  have  received  already  ; 
indeed,  I  could  not  help  it,  nor  cannot  now,  but  if 
that  will  satisfy  I  can  assure  you  I  shall  make  a 
much  better  wife  than  I  do  a  husband,  if  I  ever 
am  one.  Pardon,  mon  Cher  Cceur,  on  m  attend. 
Adieu,  mon  Ame.  Je  vous  sou/tail  tout  ce  que 
vous  desire. 

Letter  63. 

July  the  ^th  [1654]. 

BECAUSE  you  find  fault  with  my  other  letters, 
this  is  like  to  be  shorter  than  they ;  I  did  not 
intend  it  so  though,  I  can  assure  you.  But  last 
night  my  brother  told  me  he  did  not  send  his  till 
ten  o'clock  this  morning,  and  now  he  calls  for 
mine  at  seven,  before  I  am  up  ;  and  I  can  only 
be  allowed  time  to  tell  you  that  I  am  in  Kent, 
and  in  a  house  so  strangely  crowded  with 
company  that  I  am  weary  as  a  dog  already, 
though  I  have  been  here  but  three  or  four  days  ; 
that  all  their  mirth  has  not  mended  my  humour, 
and  that  I  am  here  the  same  I  was  in  other 
places ;  that  I  hope,  merely  because  you  bid  me, 
and  lose  that  hope  as  often  as  I  consider  anything 
but  yours.  Would  I  were  easy  of  belief!  they  say 
one  is  so  to  all  that  one  desires.  I  do  not  find  it, 
though  I  am  told  I  was  so  extremely  when  I 
believed  you  loved  me.  That  I  would  not  find, 


Visiting.  285 

and  you  have  only  power  to  make  me  think  it 
But  I  am  called  upon.  How  fain  I  would  say 
more ;  yet  'tis  all  but  the  saying  with  more 
circumstance  that  I  am 

Yours. 
[Directed.]     For  your  master. 

Letter  64. 

I  SEE  you  can  chide  when  you  please,  and  with 
authority ;  but  I  deserve  it,  I  confess,  and  all  I 
can  say  for  myself  is,  that  my  fault  proceeded 
from  a  very  good  principle  in  me.  I  am  apt 
to  speak  what  I  think ;  and  to  you  have  so 
accustomed  myself  to  discover  all  my  heart  that 
I  do  not  believe  it  will  ever  be  in  my  power  to 
conceal  a  thought  from  you.  Therefore  I  am 
afraid  you  must  resolve  to  be  vexed  with  all  my 
senseless  apprehensions  as  my  brother  Peyton  is 
with  some  of  his  wife's,  who  is  thought  a  very 
good  woman,  but  the  most  troublesome  one  in 
a  coach  that  ever  was.  We  dare  not  let  our 
tongues  lie  more  on  one  side  of  our  mouths 
than  t'other  for  fear  of  overturning  it.  You  are 
satisfied,  I  hope,  ere  this  that  I  'scaped  drowning. 
However,  'tis  not  amiss  that  my  will  made  you 
know  now  how  to  dispose  of  all  my  wealth  when- 
soever I  die.  But  I  am  troubled  much  you 
should  make  so  ill  a  journey  to  so  little  purpose  ; 
indeed,  I  writ  by  the  first  post  after  my  arrival 
here,  and  cannot  imagine  how  you  came  to  miss 
of  my  letters.  Is  your  father  returned  yet,  and 


286  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

do  you  think  of  coming  over  immediately  ?  How 
welcome  you  will  be.  But,  alas !  I  cannot  talk 
on't  at  the  rate  that  you  do.  I  am  sensible  that 
such  an  absence  is  misfortune  enough,  but  I  dare 
not  promise  myself  that  it  will  conclude  ours ; 
and  'tis  more  my  belief  that  you  yourself  speak 
it  rather  to  encourage  me,  and  to  your  wishes 
than  your  hopes. 

My  humour  is  so  ill  at  present,  that  I  dare  say 
no  more  lest  you  chide  me  again.  I  find  myself 
fit  for  nothing  but  to  converse  with  a  lady  below, 
that  is  fallen  out  with  all  the  world  because 
her  husband  and  she  cannot  agree.  'Tis  the 
pleasantest  thing  that  can  be  to  hear  us  discourse. 
She  takes  great  pains  to  dissuade  me  from  ever 
marrying,  and  says  I  am  the  veriest  fool  that  ever 
lived  if  I  do  not  take  her  counsel.  Now  we  do 
not  absolutely  agree  in  that  point,  but  I  promise 
her  never  to  marry  unless  I  can  find  such  a  husband 
as  I  describe  to  her,  and  she  believes  is  never  to 
be  found  ;  so  that,  upon  the  matter,  we  differ  very 
little.  Whensoever  she  is  accused  of  maintaining 
opinions  very  destructive  of  society,  and  abso- 
lutely prejudicial  to  all  the  young  people  of  both 
sexes  that  live  in  the  house,  she  calls  out  me  to 
be  her  second,  and  by  it  has  lost  me  the  favour 
of  all  our  young  gallants,  who  have  got  a  custom 
of  expressing  anything  that  is  nowhere  but  in 
fiction  by  the  name  of  "  Mrs.  O—  —  s  husband." 
For  my  life  I  cannot  beat  into  their  heads  a 
passion  that  must  be  subject  to  no  decay,  an  even 
perfect  kindness  that  must  last  perpetually,  with- 


Visiting.  287 

out  the  least  intermission.  They  laugh  to  hear 
me  say  that  one  unkind  word  would  destroy  all 
the  satisfaction  of  my  life,  and  that  I  should 
expect  our  kindness  should  increase  every  day,  if 
it  were  possible,  but  never  lessen.  All  this  is 
perfect  nonsense  in  their  opinion ;  but  I  should 
not  doubt  the  convincing  them  if  I  could  hope  to 
be  so  happy  as  to  be 

Yours. 


Letter  65.  —  Of  William  Lilly,  a  noted  and  extra- 
ordinary character  of  that  day,  the  following  account  is 
taken  from  his  own  Life  and  Times,  a  lively  book, 
full  of  amusing  lies  and  astrological  gossip,  in  which 
the  author  describes  himself  as  a  student  of  the  Black 
Art  He  was  born  in  1602  at  Disc  worth,  an  obscure 
town  in  the  north  of  Leicestershire.  His  family 
appear  to  have  been  yeomen  in  this  town  for  many 
generations.  Passing  over  the  measles  of  his  infancy, 
and  other  trivial  details  of  childhood,  which  he  describes 
minutely,  we  find  him  as  a  boy  at  Ashby-de-la-Zouche, 
where  he  is  the  pupil  of  one  Mr.  John  Brinsley.  Here 
he  learned  Latin  and  Greek,  and  began  to  study 
Hebrew.  In  the  sixteenth  year  of  his  age  he  was 
greatly  troubled  with  dreams  concerning  his  damnation 
or  salvation  ;  and  at  the  age  of  eighteen  he  returned  to 
his  father's  house,  and  there  kept  a  school  in  great 
penury.  He  then  appears  to  have  come  up  to  London, 
leaving  his  father  in  a  debtor's  prison,  and  proceeded 
in  pursuit  of  fortune  with  a  new  suit  of  clothes  and 
seven  shillings  and  sixpence  in  his  pocket.  In  London 
he  entered  the  service  of  one  Gilbert  Wright,  an 
independent  citizen  of  small  means  and  smaller  edu- 
cation. To  him  Lilly  was  both  man  -  servant  and 
secretary.  The  second  Mrs.  Wright  seems  to  have  had 


288  Letters  from  Dorothy  Os  borne. 

a  taste  lor  astrology,  and  consulted  some  of  the  quacks 
who  then  preyed  on  the  silly  women  of  the  city.  She 
was  very  fond  of  young  Lilly,  who  attended  her  in  her 
last  illness,  and,  in  return  for  his  care  and  attention,  she 
bequeathed  to  him  several  "  sigils  "  or  talismanic  seals. 
Probably  it  was  the  foolishness  of  this  poor  woman  that 
first  suggested  to  Lilly  the  advantages  to  be  gained 
from  the  profession  of  astrology.  Mr.  Wright  married  a 
third  wife,  and  soon  afterwards  died,  leaving  his  widow 
comfortably  off.  She  fell  in  love  with  Lilly,  who 
married  her  in  1627,  and  for  five  years,  until  her  death, 
they  lived  happily  together.  Lilly  was  now  a  man  of 
means,  and  was  enabled  to  study  that  science  which  he 
afterwards  practised  with  so  much  success.  There  were 
a  good  many  professors  of  the  black  art  at  this  date, 
and  Lilly  studied  under  one  Evans,  a  scoundrelly  ex- 
parson  from  Wales,  until,  according  to  Lilly's  own 
account,  he  discovered  Evans  to  be  the  cheat  he 
undoubtedly  was.  Lilly,  when  he  set  up  for  himself, 
wrote  many  astrological  works,  which  seem  to  have 
been  very  successful.  He  was  known  and  visited  by  all 
the  great  men  of  the  day,  and  probably  had  brains 
enough  only  to  prophesy  when  he  knew.  His  descrip- 
tion of  his  political  creed  is  beautifully  characteristic  of 
the  man :  "  I  was  more  Cavalier  than  Roundhead,  and 
so  taken  notice  of ;  but  afterwards  I  engaged  body  and 
soul  in  the  cause  of  the  Parliament,  but  still  with  much 
affection  to  his  Majesty's  person  and  unto  Monarchy, 
which  I  ever  loved  and  approved  beyond  any  govern- 
ment whatsoever."  Lilly  was,  in  a  word,  a  self-seeking 
but  successful  knave.  People  who  had  been  robbed, 
women  in  love,  men  in  debt,  all  in  trouble  and  doubt, 
from  the  King  downwards,  sought  his  aid.  He  pretended 
to  be  a  man  of  science,  not  a  man  gifted  with  super- 
natural powers.  Whether  he  succeeded  in  believing  in 
astrology  and  deceiving  himself,  it  is  impossible  to  say ; 
he  was  probably  too  clever  for  that,  but  he  deceived 


Visiting.  289 

others  admirably,  and  was  one  of  the  noted  and  most 
successful  of  the  old  astrologers. 

How  long  this  letter  will  be  I  cannot  tell. 
You  shall  have  all  the  time  that  is  allowed  me, 
but  upon  condition  that  you  shall  not  examine 
the  sense  on't  too  strictly,  for  you  must  know 
I  want  sleep  extremely.  The  sun  was  up  an 
hour  before  I  went  to  bed  to-day,  and  this  is  not 
the  first  time  I  have  done  this  since  I  came 
hither.  'Twill  not  be  for  your  advantage  that 
I  should  stay  here  long;  for,  in  earnest,  I  shall 
be  good  for  nothing  if  I  do.  We  go  abroad  all 
day  and  play  all  night,  and  say  our  prayers  when 
we  have  time.  Well,  in  sober  earnest  now,  I 
would  not  live  thus  a  twelvemonth  to  gain  all 
that  the  King  has  lost,  unless  it  were  to  give  it 
him  again.  'Tis  a  miracle  to  me  how  my  brother 
endures  it.  'Tis  as  contrary  to  his  humour  as 
darkness  is  to  light,  and  only  shows  the  power 
he  lets  his  wife  have  over  him.  Will  you  be  so 
good-natured  ?  He  has  certainly  as  great  a  kind- 
ness for  her  as  can  be,  and,  to  say  truth,  not 
without  reason ;  but  of  all  the  people  that  ever 
I  saw,  I  do  not  like  his  carriage  towards  her. 
He  is  perpetually  wrangling  and  finding  fault,  and 
to  a  person  that  did  not  know  him  would  appear 
the  worst  husband  and  the  most  imperious  in  the 
world.  He  is  so  amongst  his  children  too,  though 
he  loves  them  passionately.  He  has  one  son, 
and  'tis  the  finest  boy  that  e'er  you  saw,  and  has 
a  noble  spirit,  but  yet  stands  in  that  awe  of  his 

T 


290  Letters  from  Dorothy  Qsborne. 

father   that   one  word  from   him   is  as  much  as 
twenty  whippings. 

You  must  give  me  leave  to  entertain  you  thus 
with  discourses  of  the  family,  for  I  can  tell  you 
nothing  else  from  hence.  Yet,  now  I  remember, 
I  have  another  story  for  you.  You  little  think 
I  have  been  with  Lilly,  and,  in  earnest,  I  was,  the 
day  before  I  came  out  of  town ;  and  what  do  you 
think  I  went  for  ?  Not  to  know  when  you  would 
come  home,  I  can  assure  you,  nor  for  any  other 
occasion  of  my  own ;  but  with  a  cousin  of  mine 
that  had  long  designed  to  make  herself  sport  with 
him,  and  did  not  miss  of  her  aim.  I  confess  I 
always  thought  him  an  impostor,  but  I  could 
never  have  imagined  him  so  simple  a  one  as  we 
found  him.  In  my  life  I  never  heard  so  ridiculous 
a  discourse  as  he  made  us,  and  no  old  woman 
who  passes  for  a  witch  could  have  been  more 
puzzled  to  seek  what  to  say  to  reasonable  people 
than  he  was.  He  asked  us  more  questions  than 
we  did  him,  and  caught  at  everything  we  said 
without  discerning  that  we  abused  him  and  said 
things  purposely  to  confound  him ;  which  we  did 
so  perfectly  that  we  made  him  contradict  himself 
the  strangest  that  ever  you  saw.  Ever  since 
this  adventure,  I  have  had  so  great  a  belief 
in  all  things  of  this  nature,  that  I  could  not 
forbear  laying  a  peas -cod  with  nine  peas  in't 
under  my  door  yesterday,  and  was  informed  by 
it  that  my  husband's  name  should  be  Thomas. 
How  do  you  like  that  ?  But  what  Thomas, 
I  cannot  imagine,  for  of  all  the  servants  I 


Visiting.  291 

have  got  since   I   came  hither   I  know  none   of 
that  name. 

Here  is  a  new  song, — I  do  not  send  it  to  you 
but  to  your  sister;  the  tune  is  not  worth  the 
sending  so  far.  If  she  pleases  to  put  any  to  it, 
I  arn  sure  it  will  be  a  better  than  it  has  here. 
Adieu. 

Letter  66. — "  The  Lost  Lady  "  is  a  tragi-comedy  by 
Sir  William  Berkely,  and  is  advertised  to  be  sold  at  the 
shop  of  the  Holy  Lamb  in  the  year  1639,  which  we  may 
take  as  the  probable  date  of  its  publication.  Dorothy 
would  play  Hermione,  the  heroine.  We  can  imagine 
her  speaking  with  sympathetic  accent  lines  such  as 
these : 

With  what  harsh  fate  does  Heaven  afflict  me, 
That  all  the  blessings  which  make  others  happy, 
Must  be  my  ruin  ? 

The  five  Portugals  to  whom  Dorothy  refers  as  being 
hanged  were  the  Portuguese  ambassador's  brother,  Don 
Pantaleon  Sa,  and  four  of  his  men.  The  Mercurius 
Politicus  of  November  1653  gives  the  following  account 
of  the  matters  that  led  to  the  execution ;  and  as  it  is 
illustrative  of  the  manners  of  the  day,  the  account  is 
here  quoted  at  length  : — 

"NEW  EXCHANGE  IN  THE  STRAND.  November  21.— 
In  the  evening  there  happened  a  quarrel  between  the 
Portugal  ambassador's  brother  and  two  or  three  others 
of  that  nation  with  one  Mr.  Gerard,  an  English  gentle- 
man, whom  they  all  fell  upon  ;  but  he  being  rescued 
out  of  their  hands  by  one  Mr.  Anstruther,  they  retired 
home,  and  within  an  hour  after  returned  with  about 
twelve  more  of  their  nation,  armed  with  breastplates  and 
headpieces  ;  but  after  two  or  three  hours  taken  there, 
not  finding  Anstruther,  they  went  home  again  for  that 
night. 


292  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

"November  22. — At  night  the  ambassador's  brother 
and  the  rest  returned  again,  and  walking  the  upper 
Exchange,  they  met  with  one  Col.  Mayo,  who,  being 
a  proper  man,  they  supposed  him  to  have  been  the 
same  Anstruther  that  repelled  them  the  night  before ; 
and  so  shooting  off  a  pistol  (which  was  as  the  watch- 
word), the  rest  of  the  Portugals  (supposed  about  fifty) 
came  in  with  drawn  swords,  and  leaving  a  sufficient 
number  to  keep  the  stairs,  the  rest  went  up  with  the 
ambassador's  brother,  and  there  they  fell  upon  Col. 
Mayo,  who,  very  gallantly  defending  himself,  received 
seven  dangerous  wounds,  and  lies  in  a  mortal  condition. 
They  fell  also  upon  one  Mr.  Greenway,  of  Lincoln's  Inn, 
as  he  was  walking  with  his  sister  in  one  hand  and  his 
mistress  in  the  other  (to  whom,  as  I  am  informed,  he 
was  to  have  been  married  on  Tuesday  next),  and 
pistoled  him  in  the  head,  whereof  he  died  immediately. 
They  brought  with  them  several  earthen  jars  stuffed 
with  gunpowder,  stopped  with  wax,  and  fitted  with 
matches,  intending,  it  seems,  to  have  done  some  mis- 
chief to  the  Exchange  that  they  might  complete  their 
revenge,  but  they  were  prevented." 

There  is  an  account  of  their  trial  in  the  State  Trials, 
of  some  interest  to  lawyers  ;  it  resulted  in  the  execution 
of  Don  Pantaleon  Sa  and  four  of  his  servants.  By  one 
of  those  curious  fateful  coincidences,  with  which  fact 
often  outbids  fiction,  Mr.  Gerard,  who  was  the  first 
Englishman  attacked  by  the  Portuguese,  suffers  on  the 
same  scaffold  as  his  would-be  murderers,  his  offence 
being  high  treason.  Vowel,  the  other  plotter,  is  also 
executed,  but  the  third  saves  himself,  as  we  know,  by 
confession. 

July  2Qth  [1654  in  pencil]. 

I  AM  very  sorry  I  spoke  too  late,  for  I  am 
confident  this  was  an  excellent  servant.  He  was 
in  the  same  house  where  I  lay,  and  I  had  taken 


Visiting.  293 

a  great  fancy  to  him,  upon  what  was  told  me 
of  him  and  what  I  saw.  The  poor  fellow,  too, 
was  so  pleased  that  I  undertook  to  inquire  out 
a  place  for  him,  that,  though  mine  was,  as  I  told 
him,  uncertain,  yet  upon  the  bare  hopes  on't  he 
refused  two  or  three  good  conditions ;  but  I  shall 
set  him  now  at  liberty,  and  not  think  at  all  the 
worse  of  him  for  his  good-nature.  Sure  you  go 
a  little  too  far  in  your  condemnation  on't.  I 
know  it  may  be  abused,  as  the  best  things  are 
most  subject  to  be,  but  in  itself  'tis  so  absolutely 
necessary  that  where  it  is  wanting  nothing  can 
recompense  the  miss  on't.  The  most  contemp- 
tible person  in  the  world,  if  he  has  that,  cannot 
be  justly  hated,  and  the  most  considerable  without 
it  cannot  deserve  to  be  loved.  Would  to  God 
I  had  all  that  good-nature  you  complain  you  have 
too  much  of,  I  could  find  ways  enough  to  dispose 
on't  amongst  myself  and  my  friends ;  but  'tis  well 
where  it  is,  and  I  should  sooner  wish  you  more 
on't  than  less. 

I  wonder  with  what  confidence  you  can  com- 
plain of  my  short  letters  that  are  so  guilty 
yourself  in  the  same  kind.  I  have  not  seen  a 
letter  this  month  which  has  been  above  half  a 
sheet.  Never  trust  me  if  I  write  more  than  you 
that  live  in  a  desolated  country  where  you  might 
finish  a  romance  of  ten  tomes  before  anybody 
interrupted  you — I  that  live  in  a  house  the  most 
filled  of  any  since  the  Ark,  and  where,  I  can  assure 
[you],  one  has  hardly  time  for  the  most  necessary 
occasions.  Well,  there  was  never  any  one  thing 


294  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

so  much  desired  and  apprehended  at  the  same 
time  as  your  return  is  by  me ;  it  will  certainly, 
I  think,  conclude  me  a  very  happy  or  a  most 
unfortunate  person.  Sometimes,  methinks,  I 
would  fain  know  my  doom  whatever  it  be  ;  and 
at  others,  I  dread  it  so  extremely,  that  I  am 
confident  the  five  Portugals  and  the  three 
plotters  which  were  t'other  day  condemned  by 
the  High  Court  of  Justice  had  not  half  my  fears 
upon  them.  I  leave  you  to  judge  the  constraint 
I  live  in,  what  alarms  my  thoughts  give  me,  and 
yet  how  unconcerned  this  company  requires  I 
should  be ;  they  will  have  me  at  my  part  in  a 
play,  "  The  Lost  Lady "  it  is,  and  I  am  she. 
Pray  God  it  be  not  an  ill  omen ! 

I  shall  lose  my  eyes  and  you  this  letter  if  I 
make  it  longer.  Farewell. 

I  am,  yours. 

Letter  67. — Elizabeth,  Queen  of  Bohemia,  was  the 
daughter  of  James  I.  She  married  the  Elector  Frederick, 
who  was  driven  from  his  throne  owing  to  his  own 
misconduct  and  folly,  when  his  wife  was  forced  to  return 
and  live  as  a  pensioner  in  her  native  country.  She  is  said 
to  have  been  gifted  in  a  superlative  degree  with  all  that 
is  considered  most  lovely  in  a  woman's  character.  On 
her  husband's  death  in  1632  she  went  to  live  at  the 
Hague,  where  she  remained  until  the  Restoration. 
There  is  a  report  that  she  married  William,  Earl  of 
Craven,  but  there  is  no  proof  of  this.  He  was,  however, 
her  friend  and  adviser  through  her  years  of  widowhood, 
and  it  was  to  his  house  in  Drury  Lane  that  she  returned 
to  live  in  1661.  She  is  said  to  have  been  a  lover  of 
literature,  and  Francis  Quarles  and  Sir  Henry  Wotton 


Visiting.  295 

were  her  intimate  friends.  The  latter  has  written  some 
quaint  and  elegant  verses  to  his  mistress  ;  the  last  verse, 
in  which  he  apostrophizes  her  as  the  sun,  is  peculiarly 
graceful.  It  runs  thus  : 

You  meaner  beauties  of  the  night, 
That  poorly  satisfy  our  eyes, 

More  by  your  number  than  your  light, — 
You  common  people  of  the  skies, 
What  are  you  when  the  sun  shall  rise? 

But  the  sun  is  set,  and  the  beautiful  Queen's  sad,  romantic 
story  almost  forgotten. 

Sir  John  Grenvile  was  a  son  of  the  valiant  and  loyal 
cavalier,  Sir  Bevil  Grenvile,  of  Kelkhampton,  Cornwall. 
He  served  the  King  successfully  in  the  west  of  England, 
and  was  dangerously  wounded  at  Newbury.  He  was 
entrusted  by  Charles  II.  to  negotiate  with  General 
Monk.  Monk's  brother  was  vicar  of  Kelkhampton,  so 
that  Grenvile  and  Monk  would  in  all  probability  be 
well  acquainted  before  the  time  of  the  negotiation.  We 
may  remember,  too,  that  Dorothy's  younger  brother 
was  on  intimate  terms  with  General  Monk's  relations  in 
Cornwall. 

There  must  be  letters  missing  here,  for  we  cannot 
believe  more  than  a  month  passed  without  Dorothy 
writing  a  single  letter. 

I  WONDER  you  did  not  come  before  your  last 
letter.  'Twas  dated  the  24th  of  August,  but  I 
received  it  not  till  the  ist  of  September.  Would 
to  God  your  journey  were  over !  Every  little 
storm  of  wind  frights  me  so,  that  I  pass  here  for 
the  greatest  coward  that  ever  was  born,  though, 
in  earnest,  I  think  I  am  as  little  so  as  most 
women,  yet  I  may  be  deceived,  too,  for  now  I 
remember  me  you  have  often  told  me  I  was  one, 


296  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

and,  sure,  you  know  what  kind  of  heart  mine  is 
better  than  anybody  else. 

I  am  glad  you  are  pleased  with  that  description 
I  made  you  of  my  humour,  for,  though  you  had 
disliked  it,  I  am  afraid  'tis  past  my  power  to  help. 
You  need  not  make  excuses  neither  for  yours ;  no 
other  would  please  me  half  so  well.  That  gaiety 
which  you  say  is  only  esteemed  would  be  in- 
supportable to  me,  and  I  can  as  little  endure  a 
tongue  that's  always  in  motion  as  I  could  the 
click  of  a  mill.  Of  all  the  company  this  place  is 
stored  with,  there  is  but  two  persons  whose  con- 
versation is  at  all  easy ;  one  is  my  eldest  niece, 
who,  sure,  was  sent  into  the  world  to  show  'tis 
possible  for  a  woman  to  be  silent ;  the  other,  a 
gentleman  whose  mistress  died  just  when  they 
should  have  married  ;  and  though  'tis  many  years 
since,  one  may  read  it  in  his  face  still.  His 
humour  was  very  good,  I  believe,  before  that 
accident,  for  he  will  yet  say  things  pleasant 
enough,  but  'tis  so  seldom  that  he  speaks  at  all, 
and  when  he  does  'tis  with  so  sober  a  look,  that 
one  may  see  he  is  not  moved  at  all  himself  when 
he  diverts  the  company  most.  You  will  not  be 
jealous  though  I  say  I  like  him  very  much.  If 
you  were  not  secure  in  me,  you  might  be  so  in 
him.  He  would  expect  his  mistress  should  rise 
again  to  reproach  his  inconstancy  if  he  made 
court  to  anything  but  her  memory.  Methinks 
we  three  (that  is,  my  niece,  and  he  and  I)  do 
become  this  house  the  worst  that  can  be,  unless 
I  should  take  into  the  number  my  brother  Peyton 


Visiting.  297 

himself  too ;  for  to  say  truth  his,  for  another  sort 
of  melancholy,  is  not  less  than  ours.  What  can 
you  imagine  we  did  this  last  week,  when  to  our 
constant  company  there  was  added  a  colonel  and 
his  lady,  a  son  of  his  and  two  daughters,  a  maid 
of  honour  to  the  Queen  of  Bohemia,  and  another 
colonel  or  a  major,  I  know  not  which,  besides  all 
the  tongue  they  brought  with  them ;  the  men  the 
greatest  drinkers  that  ever  I  saw,  which  did  not 
at  all  agree  with  my  brother,  who  would  not  be 
drawn  to  it  to  save  a  kingdom  if  it  lay  at  stake 
and  no  other  way  to  redeem  it  ?  But,  in  earnest, 
there  was  one  more  to  be  pitied  besides  us,  and 
that  was  Colonel  Thornhill's  wife,  as  pretty  a 
young  woman  as  I  have  seen.  She  is  Sir  John 
Greenvil's  sister,  and  has  all  his  good  -  nature, 
with  a  great  deal  of  beauty  and  modesty,  and 
wit  enough.  This  innocent  creature  is  sacrificed 
to  the  veriest  beast  that  ever  was.  The  first  day 
she  came  hither  he  intended,  it  seems,  to  have 
come  with  her,  but  by  the  way  called  in  to  see 
an  old  acquaintance,  and  bid  her  go  on,  he  would 
overtake  her,  but  did  not  come  till  next  night,  and 
then  so  drunk  he  was  led  immediately  to  bed, 
whither  she  was  to  follow  him  when  she  had 
supped.  I  blest  myself  at  her  patience,  as  you 
may  do  that  I  could  find  anything  to  fill  up  this 
paper  withal.  Adieu. 

Letter  68. — In  this  scrap  of  writing  we  find  that 
Temple  is  again  in  England  with  certain  proposals  from 
his  father,  and  ready  to  discuss  the  "treaty,"  as  Dorothy 


298  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osbornc. 

calls  it,  with  her  brother  Peyton.  The  few  remaining 
letters  deal  with  the  treaty.  Temple  would  probably 
return  to  London  when  he  left  Ireland,  and  letters 
would  pass  frequently  between  them.  There  seems  to 
have  been  some  hitch  as  to  who  should  appear  in  the 
treaty.  Dorothy's  brother  had  spoken  of  and  behaved 
to  Temple  with  all  disrespect,  but,  now  that  he  is  re- 
conciled to  the  marriage,  Dorothy  would  have  him 
appear,  at  least  formally,  in  the  negotiations.  The  last 
letter  of  this  chapter,  which  is  dated  October  2nd,  calls 
on  Temple  to  come  down  to  Kent,  to  Peyton's  house ; 
and  it  is  reasonable  to  suppose  that  at  this  interview 
all  was  practically  settled  to  the  satisfaction  of  those 
two  who  were  most  deeply  concerned  in  the  negotiation. 

I  DID  so  promise  myself  a  letter  on  Friday  that 
I  am  very  angry  I  had  it  not,  though  I  know  you 
were  not  come  to  town  when  it  should  have  been 
writ.  But  did  not  you  tell  me  you  should  not 
stay  above  a  day  or  two  ?  What  is  it  that  has 
kept  you  longer  ?  I  am  pleased,  though,  that  you 
are  out  of  the  power  of  so  uncertain  things  as  the 
winds  and  the  sea,  which  I  never  feared  for  my- 
self, but  did  extremely  apprehend  for  you.  You 
will  find  a  packet  of  letters  to  read,  and  maybe 
have  met  with  them  already.  If  you  have,  you 
are  so  tired  that  'tis  but  reasonable  I  should  spare 
you  in  this.  For,  [to]  say  truth,  I  have  not  time 
to  make  this  longer ;  besides  that  if  I  had,  my  pen 
is  so  very  good  that  it  writes  an  invisible  hand,  I 
think  ;  I  am  sure  I  cannot  read  it  myself.  If  your 
eyes  are  better,  you  will  find  that  I  intended  to 
assure  you  I  am 

Yours. 


Visiting.  299 

Letter  69. 

I  AM  but  newly  waked  out  of  an  unquiet  sleep, 
and  I  find  it  so  late  that  if  I  write  at  all  it  must 
be  now.  Some  company  that  was  here  last  night 
kept  us  up  till  three  o'clock,  and  then  we  lay 
three  in  a  bed,  which  was  all  the  same  to  me 
as  if  we  had  not  gone  to  bed  at  all.  Since 
dinner  they  are  all  gone,  and  our  company  with 
them  part  of  the  way,  and  with  much  ado  I  got 
to  be  excused,  that  I  might  recover  a  little  sleep, 
but  am  so  moped  yet  that,  sure,  this  letter  will 
be  nonsense. 

I  would  fain  tell  you,  though,  that  your  father 
is  mistaken,  and  that  you  are  not,  if  you  believe 
that  I  have  all  the  kindness  and  tenderness  for 
you  my  heart  is  capable  of.  Let  me  assure  you 
(whate'er  your  father  thinks)  that  had  you  .£20,000 
a  year  I  could  love  you  no  more  than  I  do,  and 
should  be  far  from  showing  it  so  much  lest  it 
should  look  like  a  desire  of  your  fortune,  which, 
as  to  myself,  I  value  as  little  as  anybody  in  the 
world,  and  in  this  age  of  changes ;  but  certainly 
I  know  what  an  estate  is.  I  have  seen  my  father's 
reduced,  better  than  ^4000,  to  not  ^400  a  year, 
and  I  thank  God  I  never  felt  the  change  in  any- 
thing that  I  thought  necessary.  I  never  wanted, 
nor  am  confident  I  never  shall.  But  yet,  I  would 
not  be  thought  so  inconsiderate  a  person  as  not 
to  remember  that  it  is  expected  from  all  people 
that  have  sense  that  they  should  act  with  reason, 
that  to  all  persons  some  proportion  of  fortune  is 


300  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

necessary,  according  to  their  several  qualities,  and 
though  it  is  not  required  that  one  should  tie  one- 
self to  just  so  much,  and  something  is  left  for 
one's  inclination,  and  the  difference  in  the  persons 
to  make,  yet  still  within  such  a  compass, — and 
such  as  lay  more  upon  these  considerations  than 
they  will  bear,  shall  infallibly  be  condemned  by  all 
sober  persons.  If  any  accident  out  of  my  power 
should  bring  me  to  necessity  though  never  so 
great,  I  should  not  doubt  with  God's  assistance 
but  to  bear  it  as  well  as  anybody,  and  I  should 
never  be  ashamed  on't  if  He  pleased  to  send  it 
me ;  but  if  by  my  own  folly  I  had  put  it  upon 
myself,  the  case  would  be  extremely  altered.  If 
ever  this  comes  to  a  treaty,  I  shall  declare  that  in 
my  own  choice  I  prefer  you  much  before  any  other 
person  in  the  world,  and  all  that  this  inclination 
in  me  (in  the  judgment  of  any  persons  of  honour 
and  discretion)  will  bear,  I  shall  desire  may  be- 
laid upon  it  to  the  uttermost  of  what  they  can 
allow.  And  if  your  father  please  to  make  up  the 
rest,  I  know  nothing  that  is  like  to  hinder  me 
from  being  yours.  But  if  your  father,  out  of 
humour,  shall  refuse  to  treat  with  such  friends  as 
I  have,  let  them  be  what  they  will,  it  must  end 
here  ;  for  though  I  was  content,  for  your  sake,  to 
lose  them,  and  all  the  respect  they  had  for  me, 
yet,  now  I  have  done  that,  I'll  never  let  them  see 
that  I  have  so  little  interest  in  you  and  yours  as 
not  to  prevail  that  my  brother  may  be  admitted 
to  treat  for  me.  Sure,  when  a  thino-  of  course 

. 

and  so  much  reason  as  that  (unless  I  did  disclose 


Visiting.  30 1 

to  all  the  world  he  were  my  enemy),  it  must  be 
expected  whensoever  I  dispose  of  myself  he  should 
be  made  no  stranger  to  it.  When  that  shall  be 
refused  me,  I  may  be  justly  reproached  that  I 
deceived  myself  when  I  expected  to  be  at  all 
valued  in  a  family  that  I  am  a  stranger  to,  or 
that  I  should  be  considered  with  any  respect 
because  I  had  a  kindness  for  you,  that  made  me 
not  value  my  own  interests. 

I  doubt  much  whether  all  this  be  sense  or  not ; 
I  find  my  head  so  heavy.  But  that  which  I 
would  say  is,  in  short,  this  :  if  I  did  say  once 
that  my  brother  should  have  nothing  to  do  in't, 
'twas  when  his  carriage  towards  me  gave  me 
such  an  occasion  as  could  justify  the  keeping 
that  distance  with  him ;  but  now  it  would  look 
extremely  unhandsome  in  me,  and,  sure,  I  hope 
your  father  would  not  require  it  of  me.  If  he 
does,  I  must  conclude  he  has  no  value  for  me, 
and,  sure,  I  never  disobliged  him  to  my  know- 
ledge, and  should,  with  all  the  willingness  imagin- 
able, serve  him  if  it  lay  in  my  power. 

Good  God !  what  an  unhappy  person  am  I. 
All  the  world  is  so  almost.  Just  now  they  are 
telling  me  of  a  gentleman  near  us  that  is  the  most 
wretched  creature  made  (by  the  loss  of  a  wife  that 
he  passionately  loved)  that  can  be.  If  your  father 
would  but  in  some  measure  satisfy  my  friends 
that  I  might  but  do  it  in  any  justifiable  manner, 
you  should  dispose  me  as  you  pleased,  carry  me 
whither  you  would,  all  places  of  the  world  would 
be  alike  to  me  where  you  were,  and  I  should  not 


3O2  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

despair  of  carrying   myself  so    towards    him    as 
might  deserve  a  better  opinion  from  him. 

I  am  yours. 

Letter  70. 

MY  doubts  and  fears  were  not  at  all  increased 
by  that  which  gives  you  so  many,  nor  did  I 
apprehend  that  your  father  might  not  have  been 
prevailed  with  to  have  allowed  my  brother's 
being  seen  in  the  treaty ;  for  as  to  the  thing  itself, 
whether  he  appears  in't  or  not,  'twill  be  the  same. 
He  cannot  but  conclude  my  brother  Peyton  would 
not  do  anything  in  it  without  the  others'  consent. 

I  do  not  pretend  to  any  share  in  your  father's 
kindness,  as  having  nothing  in  me  to  merit  it ; 
but  as  much  a  stranger  as  I  am  to  him,  I 
should  have  taken  it  very  ill  if  I  had  desired  it 
of  him,  and  he  had  refused  it  me.  I  do  not 
believe  my  brother  has  said  anything  to  his 
prejudice,  unless  it  were  in  his  persuasions  to  me, 
and  there  it  did  not  injure  him  at  all.  If  he 
takes  it  ill  that  my  brother  appears  so  very  averse 
to  the  match,  I  may  do  so  too,  that  he  was  the 
same  ;  and  nothing  less  than  my  kindness  for  you 
could  have  made  me  take  so  patiently  as  I  did 
his  saying  to  some  that  knew  me  at  York  that 
he  was  forced  to  bring  you  thither  and  afterwards 
to  send  you  over  lest  you  should  have  married 
me.  This  was  not  much  to  my  advantage,  nor 
hardly  civil,  I  think,  to  any  woman ;  yet  I  never 
so  much  as  took  the  least  notice  on't,  nor  had 
not  now,  but  for  this  occasion  ;  yet,  sure,  it  con- 


Visiting.  303 

cerns  me  to  be  at  least  as  nice  as  he  in  point  of 
honour.  I  think  'tis  best  for  me  to  end  here  lest 
my  anger  should  make  me  lose  that  respect  I 
would  always  have  for  your  father,  and  'twere 
not  amiss,  I  think,  that  I  devoted  it  all  towards 
you  for  being  so  idle  as  to  run  out  of  your  bed  to 
catch  such  a  cold. 

If  you  come  hither  you  must  expect  to  be 
chidden  so  much  that  you  will  wish  that  you  had 
stayed  till  we  came  up,  when  perhaps  I  might 
have  almost  forgot  half  my  quarrel  to  you.  At 
this  present  I  can  assure  you  I  am  pleased  with 
nobody  but  your  sister,  and  her  I  love  extremely, 
and  will  call  her  pretty  ;  say  what  you  will,  I 
know  she  must  be  so,  though  I  never  saw  more 
of  her  than  what  her  letters  show.  She  shall 
have  two  "spots"  [carriage  dogs]  if  she  please  (for 
I  had  just  such  another  given  me  after  you  were 
gone),  or  anything  else  that  is  in  the  power  of 

Yours. 

Letter  71. 

Monday,  October  the  2nd  [1654]. 

AFTER  a  long  debate  with  myself  how  to 
satisfy  you  and  remove  that  rock  (as  you  call  it), 
which  in  your  apprehensions  is  of  so  great  danger, 
I  am  at  last  resolved  to  let  you  see  that  I  value 
your  affections  for  me  at  as  high  a  rate  as  you 
yourself  can  set  it,  and  that  you  cannot  have 
more  of  tenderness  for  me  and  my  interests  than  I 
shall  ever  have  for  yours.  The  particulars  how 


304  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

I  intend  to  make  this  good  you  shall  know  when 
I  see  you  ;  which  since  I  find  them  here  more 
irresolute  in  point  of  time  (though  not  as  to 
the  journey  itself)  than  I  hoped  they  would  have 
been,  notwithstanding  your  quarrel  to  me,  and  the 
apprehension  you  would  make  me  believe  you 
had  that  I  do  not  care  to  see  you,  pray  come 
hither  and  try  whether  you  shall  be  welcome  or 
not !  In  sober  earnest  now  I  must  speak  with  you; 
and  to  that  end  if  your  occasions  will  [serve]  come 
down  to  Canterbury.  Send  some  one  when  you 
are  there,  and  you  shall  have  further  directions. 

You  must  be  contented  not  to  stay  here  above 
two  or  three  hours.  I  shall  tell  you  my  reason 
when  you  come.  And  pray  inform  yourself  of 
all  that  your  father  will  do  on  this  occasion,  that 
you  may  tell  it  me  only  ;  therefore  let  it  be 
plainly  and  sincerely  what  he  intends  and  all. 

I  will  not  hinder  your  coming  away  so  much 
as  the  making  this  letter  a  little  longer  might 
take  away  from  your  time  in  reading  it.  'Tis 
enough  to  tell  you  I  am  ever 

Yours. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  END  OF  THE  THIRD  VOLUME. 

THIS  short  series  of  notes  was  written,  I  think,  during  a 
visit  to  London  after  the  formal  betrothal  and  before 
the  marriage.  These  notes  were  evidently  written  upon 
the  trivial  occasions  of  the  day,  more  perhaps  for  the 
sake  of  writing  something  than  for  any  more  serious 
reason.  The  note  in  French  is  somewhat  of  a  curiosity 
on  account  of  its  quaint  orthography,  which  is  purposely 
left  uncorrected.  Was  Dorothy  in  London  to  purchase 
her  trousseau  ?  Where  did  she  and  Jane  spend  their 
days,  if  that  was  the  case,  when  Regent  Street  was 
green  fields  ?  These  questions  cannot  be  satisfactorily 
answered ;  but  the  notes  themselves,  without  any  history 
or  explanation,  are  so  full  of  interest,  so  fresh  and 
vivacious,  even  for  Dorothy,  that  they  place  themselves 
from  the  freedom  and  joy  of  their  style  and  manner  at 
the  end  of  the  third  volume. 

You  are  like  to  have  an  excellent  housewife  of 
me ;  I  am  abed  still,  and  slept  so  soundly,  nothing 
but  your  letter  could  have  waked  me.  You  shall 
hear  from  me  as  soon  as  we  have  dined.  Fare- 
well ;  can  you  endure  that  word  ?  No,  out  upon't. 
I'll  see  you  anon. 

FYE  upon't  I  shall  grow  too  good  now,  I  am 
taking  care  to  know  how  your  worship  slept  to- 
ll 


306  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

night ;  better  I  hope  than  you  did  the  last.  Send 
me  word  how  you  do,  and  don't  put  me  off  with  a 
bit  of  a  note  now ;  you  could  write  me  a  fine  long 
letter  when  I  did  not  deserve  it  half  so  well. 

You  are  mistaken  if  you  think  I  am  in  debt 
for  both  these  days.  Saturday  I  confess  was 
devoted  to  my  Lady ;  but  yesterday,  though  I  ris 
with  good  intentions  of  going  to  church,  my  cold 
would  not  suffer  me,  but  kept  me  prisoner  all  the 
day.  I  went  to  your  lodging  to  tell  you  that 
visiting  the  sick  was  part  of  the  work  of  the  day, 
but  you  were  gone,  and  so  I  went  to  bed  again, 
where  your  letter  found  me  this  morning.  But 
now  I  will  rise  and  despatch  some  visits  that  I 
owe,  that  to-morrow  may  be  entirely  yours. 

I  FIND  my  conscience  a  little  troubled  till  I  have 
asked  your  pardon  for  my  ill-humour  last  night. 
Will  you  forgive  it  me ;  in  earnest,  I  could  not 
help  it,  but  I  met  with  a  cure  for  it ;  my  brother 
kept  me  up  to  hear  his  learned  lecture  till  after 
two  o'clock,  and  I  spent  all  my  ill-humour  upon 
him,  and  yet  we  parted  very  quietly,  and  look'd 
as  if  a  little  good  fortune  might  make  us  good 
friends  ;  but  your  special  friend,  my  elder  brother, 
I  have  a  story  to  tell  you  of  him.  Will  my  cousin 
F.  come,  think  you  ?  Send  me  word,  it  maybe 
'twas  a  compliment ;  if  I  can  see  you  this  morning 
I  will,  but  I  dare  not  promise  it. 

SIR, — This  is  to  tell  you  that  you  will  be  ex- 
pected to-morrow  morning  about  nine  o'clock  at 


The  End  of  the  Third  Volume.          307 

a  lodging  over  against  the  place  where  Charinge 
Crosse  stood,  and  two  doors  above  Ye  Goate 
Taverne ;  if  with  these  directions  you  can  find  it 
out,  you  will  there  find  one  that  is  very  much 

Your  servant. 

Now  I  have  got  the  trick  of  breaking  my 
word,  I  shall  do  it  every  day.  I  must  go  to  Roe- 
hampton  to-day,  but  'tis  all  one,  you  do  not  care 
much  for  seeing  me.  Well,  my  master,  remember 
last  night  you  swaggered  like  a  young  lord.  I'll 
make  your  stomach  come  down  ;  rise  quickly,  you 
had  better,  and  come  hither  that  I  may  give  you  a 
lesson  this  morning  before  I  go. 

JE  n'ay  guere  plus  dormie  que  vous  et  mes 
songes  n'ont  pas  estres  moins  confuse,  au  rest 
une  bande  de  violons  que  sont  venu  jouer  sous 
ma  fennestre,  m'ont  tourmentes  de  tel  fa$on  que 
je  doubt  fort  si  je  pourrois  jamais  les  souffrire 
encore,  je  ne  suis  pourtant  pas  en  fort  mauvaise 
humeur  et  je  m'en-voy  ausi  tost  que  je  serai 
habillee  voire  ce  qu'il  est  posible  de  faire  pour 
vostre  sattisfaction,  apres  je  viendre  vous  rendre 
conte  de  nos  affairs  et  quoy  qu'il  en  sera  vous  ne 
scaurois  jamais  doubte  que  je  ne  vous  ayme  plus 
que  toutes  les  choses  du  monde. 

I  HAVE  slept  as  little  as  you,  and  may  be  allowed 
to  talk  as  unreasonably,  yet  I  find  I  am  not  quite 
senseless  ;  I  have  a  heart  still  that  cannot  resolve 
to  refuse  you  anything  within  its  power  to  grant. 


308  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

But,  Lord,  when  shall  I  see  you  ?  People  will 
think  me  mad  if  I  go  abroad  this  morning  after 
having  seen  me  in  the  condition  I  was  in  last 
night,  and  they  will  think  it  strange  to  see  you 
here.  Could  you  not  stay  till  they  are  all  gone 
to  Roehampton  ?  they  go  this  morning.  I  do  but 
ask,  though  do  what  you  please,  only  believe  you 
do  a  great  injustice  if  you  think  me  false.  I 
never  resolv'd  to  give  you  an  eternal  farewell,  but 
I  resolv'd  at  the  same  time  to  part  with  all  the 
comfort  of  my  life,  and  whether  I  told  it  you  or 
not  I  shall  die  yours. 

Tell  me  what  you  will  have  me  do. 

HERE  comes  the  note  again  to  tell  you  I  cannot 
call  on  you  to-night ;  I  cannot  help  it,  and  you 
must  take  it  as  patiently  as  you  can,  but  I  am 
engaged  to-night  at  the  Three  Rings  to  sup  and 
play.  Poor  man,  I  am  sorry  for  you  ;  in  earnest,  I 
shall  be  quite  spoiled.  I  see  no  remedy ;  think 
whether  it  were  not  best  to  leave  me  and  begin 
a  new  adventure. 


And  now  we  have  finished.  Dorothy  Osborne  is 
passing  away,  will  soon  be  translated  into  Dorothy 
Temple  ;  with  the  romance  of  her  life  all  past  history,  and 
fast  becoming  as  much  a  romance  to  herself,  as  it  seems 
to  us,  looking  back  at  it  after  more  than  two  centuries. 
Something  it  is  becoming  to  her  over  which  she  can 
muse  and  dream  and  weave  into  tales  for  the  children 
who  will  gather  round  her.  Something  the  reality  of 
which  will  grow  doubtful  to  her,  if  she  find  idle  hours 
for  dreaming  and  doubting  in  her  new  name.  Her  last 


The  End  of  the  Third  Volume.  309 

lover's  letter  is  written.  We  are  ready  for  the  marriage 
ceremony,  and  listen  for  the  wedding  march  and  happy 
jingle  of  village  bells;  or  if  we  may  not  have  these  in  Puri- 
tan days,  at  least  we  may  hear  the  pompous  magistrate 
pronounce  the  blessing  of  the  State  over  its  two  happy 
subjects.  But  no  !  There  is  yet  a  moment  of  suspense, 
a  last  trial  to  the  lover's  constancy.  The  bride  is  taken 
dangerously  ill,  so  dangerously  ill  that  the  doctors 
rejoice  when  the  disease  pronounces  itself  to  be  small- 
pox. Alas  !  who  shall  now  say  what  are  the  inmost 
thoughts  of  our  Dorothy  ?  Does  she  not  need  all  her 
faith  in  her  lover,  in  herself,  ay,  and  in  God,  to  uphold 
her  in  this  new  affliction  ?  She  rises  from  her  bed,  her 
beauty  of  face  destroyed  ;  her  fair  looks  living  only  on 
the  painter's  canvas,  unless  we  may  believe  that  they 
were  etched  in  deeply  bitten  lines  on  Temple's  heart. 
But  the  skin  beauty  is  not  the  firmest  hold  she  has  on 
Temple's  affections  ;  this  was  not  the  beauty  that  had 
attracted  her  lover  and  held  him  enchained  in  her  service 
for  seven  years  of  waiting  and  suspense ;  this  was  not 
the  only  light  leading  him  through  dark  days  of  doubt, 
almost  of  despair,  constant,  unwavering  in  his  troth 
to  her.  Other  beauty  not  outward,  of  which  we,  too, 
may  have  seen  something,  mirrored  darkly  in  these 
letters  ;  which  we,  too,  as  well  as  Temple,  may  know 
existed  in  Dorothy.  For  it  is  not  beauty  of  face  and 
form,  but  of  what  men  call  the  soul,  that  made  Dorothy 
to  Temple,  in  fact  as  she  was  in  name, — the  gift  of 
God. 


APPENDIX. 


LADY  TEMPLE. 

OF  Lady  Temple  there  is  very  little  to  be  known, 
and  what  there  is  can  be  best  understood  by  following 
the  career  of  her  husband,  which  has  been  written  at 
some  length,  and  with  laboured  care,  by  Mr.  Cour- 
tenay.  After  her  marriage,  which  took  place  in  London, 
January  3ist,  1655,  they  lived  for  a  year  at  the  home 
of  a  friend  in  the  country.  They  then  removed  to 
Ireland,  where  they  lived  for  five  years  with  Temple's 
father;  Lady  Giffard,  Temple's  widowed  sister,  joining 
them.  In  1663  they  were  living  in  England.  Lady 
Giffard  continued  to  live  with  them  through  the  rest  of 
their  lives,  and  survived  them  both.  In  1665  Temple 
was  sent  to  Brussels  as  English  representative,  and  his 
family  joined  him  in  the  following  year.  In  1668  he 
was  removed  from  Brussels  to  the  Hague,  where  the 
successful  negotiations  which  led  to  the  Triple  Alliance 
took  place,  and  these  have  given  him  an  honourable 
place  in  history.  There  is  a  letter  of  Lady  Temple's, 
written  to  her  husband  in  1670,  which  shows  how 
interested  she  was  in  the  part  he  took  in  political  life, 
and  how  he  must  have  consulted  her  in  all  State  matters. 
It  is  taken  from  Courtenay's  Life  of  Sir  William  Temple, 
vol.  i.  p.  345.  He  quotes  it  as  the  only  letter  written 
after  Lady  Temple's  marriage  which  has  come  into  his 
hands. 

810 


Appendix.  311 

THE  HAGUE,  October  31^,  1670. 

MY  DEAREST  HEART, — I  received  yours  from 
Yarmouth,  and  was  very  glad  you  made  so  happy 
a  passage.  'Tis  a  comfortable  thing,  when  one  is 
on  this  side,  to  know  that  such  a  thing  can  be 
done  in  spite  of  contrary  winds.  I  have  a  letter 
from  P.,  who  says  in  character  that  you  may  take 
it  from  him  that  the  Duke  of  Buckingham  has 
begun  a  negotiation  there,  but  what  success  in 
England  he  may  have  he  knows  not;  that  it 
were  to  be  wished  our  politicians  at  home  would 
consider  well  that  there  is  no  trust  to  be  put  in 
alliances  with  ambitious  kings,  especially  such  as 
make  it  their  fundamental  maxim  to  be  base. 
These  are  bold  words,  but  they  are  his  own. 
Besides  this,  there  is  nothing  but  that  the  French 
King  grows  very  thrifty,  that  all  his  buildings, 
except  fortifications,  are  ceased,  and  that  his 
payments  are  not  so  regular  as  they  used  to  be. 
The  people  here  are  of  another  mind ;  they  will 
not  spare  their  money,  but  are  resolved — at  least 
the  States  of  Holland — if  the  rest  will  consent, 
to  raise  fourteen  regiments  of  foot  and  six  of 
horse ;  that  all  the  companies,  both  old  and  new, 
shall  be  of  120  men  that  used  to  be  of  50,  and 
every  troop  80  that  used  to  be  of  45.  Nothing 
is  talked  of  but  these  new  levies,  and  the  young 
men  are  much  pleased.  Downton  says  they  have 
strong  suspicions  here  you  will  come  back  no 
more,  and  that  they  shall  be  left  in  the  lurch  ; 
that  something  is  striking  up  with  France,  and 


312  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

that  you  are  sent  away  because  you  are  too 
well  inclined  to  these  countries ;  and  my  cousin 
Temple,  he  says,  told  him  that  a  nephew  of  Sir 
Robert  Long's,  who  is  lately  come  to  Utrecht, 
told  my  cousin  Temple,  three  weeks  since,  you 
were  not  to  stay  long  here,  because  you  were  too 
great  a  friend  to  these  people,  and  that  he  had  it 
from  Mr.  Williamson,  who  knew  very  well  what 
he  said.  My  cousin  Temple  says  he  told  it  to 
Major  Scott  as  soon  as  he  heard  it,  and  so  'tis 
like  you  knew  it  before ;  but  there  is  such  a  want 
of  something  to  say  that  I  catch  at  everything. 
I  am  my  best  dear's  most  affectionate 

D.  T. 

In  the  summer  of  1671  there  occurred  an  incident 
that  reminds  us  considerably  of  the  Dorothy  Osborne 
of  former  days.  The  Triple  Alliance  had  lost  some  of 
its  freshness,  and  was  not  so  much  in  vogue  as  heretofore. 
Charles  II.  had  been  coquetting  with  the  French  King, 
and  at  length  the  Government,  throwing  off  its  mask, 
formally  displaced  Temple  from  his  post  in  Holland. 
"  The  critical  position  of  affairs,"  says  Courtenay,  "  in- 
duced the  Dutch  to  keep  a  fleet  at  sea,  and  the  English 
Government  hoped  to  draw  from  that  circumstance  an 
occasion  of  quarrel.  A  yacht  was  sent  for  Lady  Temple  ; 
the  captain  had  orders  to  sail  through  the  Dutch  fleet  if 
he  should  meet  it,  and  to  fire  into  the  nearest  ships  until 
they  should  either  strike  sail  to  the  flag  which  he  bore, 
or  return  his  shot  so  as  to  make  a  quarrel ! 

"  He  saw  nothing  of  the  Dutch  Fleet  in  going  over,  but 
on  his  return  he  fell  in  with  it,  and  fired,  without  warn- 
ing and  ceremony,  into  the  ships  that  were  next  him. 

"  The  Dutch  admiral,  Van  Ghent,  was  puzzled  ;  he 
seemed  not  to  know,  and  probably  did  not  know,  what 


Appendix.  3 1 3 

the  English  captain  meant ;  he  therefore  sent  a  boat, 
thinking  it  possible  that  the  yacht  might  be  in  distress  ; 
when  the  captain  told  his  orders,  mentioning  also  that 
he  had  the  ambassadress  on  board.  Van  Ghent  himself 
then  came  on  board,  with  a  handsome  compliment  to 
Lady  Temple,  and,  making  his  personal  inquiries  of 
the  captain,  received  the  same  answer  as  before.  The 
Dutchman  said  he  had  no  orders  upon  the  point,  which 
he  rightly  believed  to  be  still  unsettled,  and  could  not 
believe  that  the  fleet,  commanded  by  an  admiral,  was  to 
strike  to  the  King's  pleasure-boat. 

"When  the  Admiral  returned  to  his  ship,  the  captain 
also,  '  perplexed  enough,'  applied  to  Lady  Temple,  who 
soon  saw  that  he  desired  to  get  out  of  his  difficulty  by 
her  help ;  but  the  wife  of  Sir  William  Temple  called 
forth  the  spirit  of  Dorothy  Osborne.  '  He  knew,'  she 
told  the  captain,  '  his  orders  best,  and  what  he  was  to  do 
upon  them,  which  she  left  to  him  to  follow  as  he  thought 
fit,  without  any  regard  to  her  or  her  children.'  The 
Dutch  and  English  commanders  then  proceeded  each 
upon  his  own  course,  and  Lady  Temple  was  safely 
landed  in  England." 

There  is  an  account  of  this  incident  in  a  letter  of 
Sir  Charles  Lyttelton  to  Viscount  Hatton,  in  the  Hatton 
Correspondence.  He  tells  us  that  the  poor  captain, 
Captain  Crow  of  The  Monmouth,  "found  himself  in 
the  Tower  about  it ; "  but  he  does  not  add  any  further 
information  as  to  the  part  which  Dorothy  played  in  the 
matter. 

After  their  retirement  to  Sheen  and  Moor  Park, 
Surrey,  we  know  nothing  distinctively  of  Lady  Temple, 
and  little  is  known  of  their  family  life.  They  had  only 
two  children  living,  having  lost  as  many  as  seven  in 
their  infancy.  In  1684  one  of  these  children,  their  only 
daughter,  died  of  small-pox  ;  she  was  buried  in  West- 
minster Abbey.  There  is  a  letter  of  hers  written  to  her 
father  which  shows  some  signs  of  her  mother's  affec- 


314  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

tionate  teaching,  and  which  we  cannot  forbear  to  quote. 
It  is  copied  from  Courtenay,  vol.  ii.  p.  113. 

SIR, — I  deferred  writing  to  you  till  I  could  tell 
you  that  I  had  received  all  my  fine  things,  which 
I  have  just  now  done ;  but  I  thought  never  to 
have  done  giving  you  thanks  for  them.  They 
have  made  me  so  very  happy  in  my  new  clothes, 
and  everybody  that  comes  does  admire  them 
above  all  things,  but  yet  not  so  much  as  I  think 
they  deserve  ;  and  now,  if  papa  was  near,  I  should 
think  myself  a  perfect  pope,  though  I  hope  I 
should  not  be  burned  as  there  was  one  at  Nell 
Gwyn's  door  the  5th  of  November,  who  was  set 
in  a  great  chair,  with  a  red  nose  half  a  yard  long, 
with  some  hundreds  of  boys  throwing  squibs  at  it. 
Monsieur  Gore  and  I  agree  mighty  well,  and  he 
makes  me  believe  I  shall  come  to  something 
at  last;  that  is  if  he  stays,  which  I  don't  doubt 
but  he  will,  because  all  the  fine  ladies  will  petition 
for  him.  We  are  got  rid  of  the  workmen  now, 
and  our  house  is  ready  to  entertain  you.  Come 
when  you  please,  and  you  will  meet  nobody  more 
glad  to  see  you  than  your  most  obedient  and 
dutiful  daughter, 

D.  TEMPLE. 

Temple's  son,  John  Temple,  married  in  1685  a  rich 
heiress  in  France,  the  daughter  of  Monsieur  Duplessis 
Rambouillet,  a  French  Protestant  ;  he  brought  his  wife 
to  live  at  his  father's  house  at  Sheen.  After  King 
William  and  Queen  Mary  were  actually  placed  on  the 
throne,  Sir  William  Temple,  in  1689,  permitted  his  son 
to  accept  the  office  of  Secretary  at  War.  For  reasons 


Appendix.  315 

now  obscure  and  unknowable,  he  drowned  himself  in 
the  Thames  within  a  week  of  his  acceptance  of  office, 
leaving  this  writing  behind  him  : — 

"  My  folly  in  undertaking  what  I  was  not  able  to 
perform  has  done  the  King  and  kingdom  a  great 
deal  of  prejudice.  I  wish  him  all  happiness  and  abler 
servants  than  John  Temple." 

The  following  letter  was  written  on  that  occasion  by 
Lady  Temple  to  her  nephew,  Sir  John  Osborne.  The 
original  of  it  is  at  Chicksands  : — 

To  Sir  John  Osborne,  thanking  him  for  his 
consolation  on  the  death  of  her  son. 

SHEEN,  May  6th,  1689. 

DEAR  NEPHEW, — I  give  you  many  thanks  for 
your  kind  letter  and  the  sense  you  have  of  my 
affliction,  which  truly  is  very  great.  But  since  it 
is  laid  upon  me  by  the  hand  of  an  Almighty  and 
Gracious  God,  that  always  proportions  His  punish- 
ments to  the  support  He  gives  with  them,  I  may 
hope  to  bear  it  as  a  Christian  ought  to  do,  and 
more  especially  one  that  is  conscious  to  herself 
of  having  many  ways  deserved  it.  The  strange 
revolution  we  have  seen  might  well  have  taught 
me  what  this  world  is,  yet  it  seems  it  was 
necessary  that  I  should  have  a  near  example  of 
the  uncertainty  of  all  human  blessings,  that  so 
having  no  tie  to  the  world  I  may  the  better  pre- 
pare myself  to  leave  it ;  and  that  this  correction 
may  suffice  to  teach  me  my  duty  must  be  the 
prayer  of  your  affectionate  aunt  and  humble 
servant, 

D.  TEMPLE. 


316  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osborne. 

During  the  remaining  years  of  her  life,  Lady  Temple 
was  honoured,  to  use  the  conventional  phrase,  by  the 
friendship  of  Queen  Mary,  and  there  is  said  to  have 
been  a  continuous  correspondence  between  them,  though 
I  can  find  on  inquiry  no  trace  of  its  existence  at  the 
present  day. 

Early  in  the  year  1695,  after  forty  years  of  married 
life,  and  in  the  sixty-seventh  year  of  her  age,  she  died. 
She  lies,  with  her  husband  and  children,  on  the  north 
side  of  the  nave  of  Westminster  Abbey,  close  to  the 
little  door  that  leads  to  the  organ  gallery. 

Her  body  sleeps  in  Capel's  monument, 
And  her  immortal  part  with  angels  lives. 


INDEX. 


THE  Index  contains  every  name  mentioned  in  the  Letters,  and  every  refer- 
ence to  that  name.  The  figures  in  italics  refer  to  the  page  on  which  there 
is  a  biographical  or  explanatory  note. 

Carey,  Lady,  92,  94. 

Carey,  Mrs.,  Philadelphia,  269. 

Carlisle,  Lady,  167,  171,  175,  180. 

Carriers,  53. 

Chambers,  Mrs.,  68,  70,  80,  147. 

Chancery,  abolition  of,  186,  190. 

Chandos,    Lord,    duel    with     Mr. 

Compton,  91,  94. 
Charing-Cross,  307. 
Cheeke,  Tom,  121,  123,  128,   132. 
Cheeke,  Sir  Thomas,  132. 
Chicksands,  26,  28,  40. 
CUopdtre,    La,   romance     by   Cal- 

prenede,  62,  66,  70,  81,  82,  98. 
Coleraine,  Lord,  daughter  of,  37. 
Collins,  a  carrier,  54,  191,  200,  220. 
Compton,  Mr.,  91,  94,  105. 
Cook,  Sir  Robert,  64. 
Cooper,  Samuel,  miniature  painter, 

122,  124,  276. 

Copyn,  Mr.,  of  Fleet  Street,  191. 
Courtenay,  Thomas  Peregrine,  his 

Life  of  Temple,  11. 
Cowley  s  Davideis,  279,  282. 
Cromwell,  Henry,  71,  76,  84,  108, 

161,  209. 
Cromwell,  Oliver,   84,    108,    161  ; 

and  see  Protector. 
Cyrus,  Le  Grand,  romance  by  Scu- 

deri,  62,  114,  117,  125,  151,  175, 

200,  232. 


AGUE,  47. 

Alcidiana,  73. 

Almanzor,  73. 

Althorp,  136. 

Apes,  a  chain  to  lead,  153,  \  56. 

Arbry,  see  Erbury. 

Arme,  219. 

Artamanes,  see  Cyrus. 

Artemise,  story  of,  70. 

Arundel,  Lord,  92,  94. 

B.,  James,  239,  260. 

B.,  Lady,  74,  80. 

B.,  Mr.,  103,  252. 

Babram,  114. 

Bagshawe,  Edward,  243,  249. 

Barbury,  Lady,  57- 

Barnet,  32. 

Bassa  L'illustre,  160,  229,  231. 

Battledore  and  shuttlecock,  73. 

Beauchamp,  Lord,  260. 

Bedford,  40. 

Bennet,  Richard,  of  Babram,  112, 

117,  119. 
Biron,  Lord,  his  verses  to  his  wife, 

1 66. 

Blunt,  Lady  Anne,  195,  200,  201. 
Blunt,  Mr.,  202. 
Bohemia,  Elizabeth,  Queen  of,  294, 

297. 

Breda,  41. 
Brickhill,  238. 
Brittomart,  70. 
Broghill,  Lord,  126,  127,  130,  161, 

166,  233. 

Buckingham,  Duke  of,  311. 
Bussy,  66. 

C.,  Robin,  248. 

Camden,  Viscount,  259;  duel  with 

Mr.  Stafford,  260. 
Camilla,  Mrs.,  238. 


D.,  Mr.,  252. 

Danvers,  Cousin  H.,  120. 

Delie,  82. 

Devonshire,  Lady,  228,  229. 

Dorchester,  Lord,  47,  268. 

Downton,  311. 

Dr.,  Mr.,  212,  218. 

ELIZABETH,  Queen,  the  little  tailor 
that  loved,  224. 


Index. 


Emperor,  the,  see  Isham,  Sir 
Justinian. 

Epsom,  82,  107,  116,  136;  descrip- 
tion of  Epsom  waters,  138. 

Erbury,  William,  86,  87,  88. 

FIENNES,  William,  Lord  Say  and 

Sele,  158,  161. 
Fish,  Mr.,  117,  239. 
Fleetwood,  108. 
Flower  Pot,  the,   shop  above   the 

Exchange,  78,  82. 
Flying  machines,  discourse  on,  174. 
Franklins  of  Moor  Park,  cousins  of 

Dorothy,  121,  123,  129,  132,  169, 

202,  3015. 
Freeman,  Ralph,  of  Aspedon  Hall, 

Herts,  114,  117,  125,  193,  252. 
Fretcheville,  Mrs.,  270. 

GENERAL,     the,     see     Cromwell, 

Oliver. 

Gerherd,  Mrs.,  270,  274. 
Gibson,  Mr.,  174,  238,  246. 
Giffard,  Lady,Temple'ssister,&2, 65. 
Goat  Tavern,  the,  307. 
Goldsmith,  Mrs.,  63,  232,  239. 
Gore,  Monsieur,  314. 
Goring  House,  32,  35. 
Grenvile,  Sir  John,  295,  297. 
Grey,  Lady,  220,  239. 
Grey,  Mr.,  50,  51. 
Gwyn,  Nell,  314. 

Hales,  Sir  Edward,  165. 
Hammond,  Cousin,  65,  281. 
Harrison,  Mrs.,  maid  of  honour  to 

the  Queen,  126,  130. 
Harrold,  carrier,  55,  191. 
Harry,  Cousin,  71. 
Harry,  Brother,  104,  144. 
Heams  of  the  Flower  Pot,  82,  89, 94. 
Heningham,  Mr.,  172,  269. 
Hertford,  Marquis  of,  258,  260. 
Holland,  Lady,  214. 
Hollingsworth,  Mr.,  114,  117,  125, 

200. 
Hoskins,  John,  miniature  painter, 

122,  124. 

Howard,  Arundel,  58,  60. 
Howard,  Lady  Betty,  269. 


Howard,  Mr.,  57,  60. 
Howard,  Mrs.,  269. 
Howard, Thomas,  and  Mrs.  Harrison, 
127,  130. 

ISHAM,  Sir  Justinian,  Bart.,  of 
Lamport,  S3,  56,  109,  115,  120, 
125,  137,  153,  156,  159,  177. 

JAMES,  232,  253. 

Jane,    63,  67,   77,   130,   136,    142, 

162,  166,  173,  183,  189,  200,  232, 

239,  251,  252,  274,  276. 
Jones,  of  Suffolk  House,  151,  189, 

206. 

KEBLE,  Lord,  186,  190. 
Kimbolton,  123,  248. 

L.,  Lord,  102. 

Lee  [Leigh],  Lord  Stoneleigh, 
marriage  of  his  daughter  to  Sir 
Justinian  Isham,  156. 

Leicester,  Lord  and  Lady,  179,  181. 

Lely,  Sir  Peter,  171. 

Leppington,  Lady,  105,  and  see 
Carey. 

Lexington,  Lady,  106,  108. 

Lilly,  William,  the  astrologer,  287, 
290. 

Lisle,  Lord,  53,  proposed  as  ambas- 
sador to  Sweden,  56,  70 ;  the 
journey  deferred,  84,  147 ;  and 
abandoned,  190. 

Littleton,  Sir  H.,  269. 

Lobster,  lady  of  a,  112,  114. 

Long,  Sir  Robert,  312. 

Lost  Lady,  The,  tragi-comedy  by  Sir 
W.  Berkely,  291,  294. 

Ludlow,  281. 

Luke,  Mr.,  88. 

Luke,  Sir  Samuel,  86,  88. 

Lundy,  Isle  of,  161. 

MACAULAY,  quotation  from  his  essay 
on  Sir  William  Temple,  12-18. 

Manchester,  Earl  of,  122,  123. 

Marlow,  171. 

Marriage  Act,  1653,  144,  147- 

Marshall,  Stephen,  185,  187,  188. 

Masques,  disorders  at,  49. 

Molle,  Cousin,  70,  91,  103,  no, 
113,  119.  J23.  132,  159,  171,248. 


Index. 


Monk,  General,  his  marriage,  148, 

IS*- 

Monk,  Nicholas,  148,  151. 

Monmouth,  Lord,  157,  161. 

Moor     Park,    Hertfordshire,    !£/, 

123,  171,  202,  248. 
Morton,  J.,  269. 

NAN,  see  Stacy. 

Nevile,  Mr.,  130. 

Newcastle,    Margaret,  Duchess  of, 

96,  244  ;  her  poems,  100,  113. 
Newport,  Lady,  228,  229. 

ORMOND,  Lady,  152,  155. 

Osborne,  Dorothy,  first  meets 
Temple,  13  ;  Macaulay's  descrip 
tion  of  her  life  and  letters,  12-18  ; 
death  of  her  mother,  36 ;  pro- 
posals of  Sir  Justinian  Isham  to, 
37,  47,  48  ;  proposal  of  Sir 
Thomas  Osborne  to,  37  ;  her 
thoughts  on  marriage,  44,  128, 
135,  140,  143,'  182,  183;  her 
friendship  for  Lady  Diana  Rich, 
45>  4-8  >  goes  to  London,  spring 
of  1653,  62  ;  her  opinions  of  dis- 
solution of  Long  Parliament,  84  ; 
persecution  of,  by  her  brother, 
90 ;  how  she  spends  her  days, 
103  ;  her  niece,  104,  296  ;  pro- 
posal of  Mr.  Talbot  to,  107  ;  her 
love  of  dogs,  108 ;  her  opinion 
of  Lady  Newcastle's  book,  113  ; 
her  quarrels  with  her  brother,  115, 
245  ;  on  riches,  131  ;  on  trans- 
lations from  the  French,  160  ;  on 
the  qualities  of  a  husband,  169  ; 
death  of  her  brother,  172 ;  goes 
to  London,  autumn  1653,  185; 
hears  Stephen  Marshall  preach, 
187  ;  her  quarrel  with  Temple, 
and  despondency,  194-215  ;  on 
courts,  229  ;  death  of  her  father, 
255  5  leaves  Chicksands  and  goes 
to  London,  261,  265 ;  on  wed- 
dings, 281 ;  on  Cowley's  verses, 
282  ;  visits  her  brother  Peyton 
in  Kent,  283  ;  interviews  Lilly 
the  astrologer,  290 ;  acts  in  The 
Lost  Lady,  294  ;  the  treaty  of 


marriage,    299,    300,    301,    302; 

after  marriage,  308-316. 
Osborne,   Sir  Peter,  short  account 

of  his  life  and  family,  23-26;  ill- 

health  of,  41,  85,  97,  119  ;  death 

of,  255. 
Osborne,  Sir  Thomas,  34,  37,  94, 

113,  128  ;  Lady  Bridget  his  wife, 

128,  163. 

PAGET,  Lord,  167,  171. 

Parliament,  dissolution  of,  83. 

Parthenissa,  romance  by  Lord 
Broghill,  228,  230. 

Paunton,  Colonel,  269. 

Paynter,  Mrs.,  of  Covent  Garden, 
40,  54,  in,  114. 

Pembroke,  Lady,  178,  181. 

Pembroke,  Lord,  181. 

Penshurst,  181. 

Percy,  Lady  Anne,  50,  52. 

Peters,  Cousin,  128,  142. 

Peyton,  Sir  Thomas,  brother-in- 
law  of  Dorothy,  101,  104,  150, 
157,  161,  163,  173,  252,  282, 
285,  296,  302;  his  wives,  158; 
letter  of,  to  Dorothy,  165. 

Philip  II.  of  France,  la  belle  aveugle, 
his  mistress,  59. 

Pirn,  Mr.,  84. 

Pinto,  Fernando  Mendez,  Portu- 
guese traveller,  235,  238. 

Polexander,  a  French  romance,  157, 
1 60. 

Pooley,   Mrs.,  Lady  Grey's  sister, 

239. 
Portuguese,    riots  in    London   by, 

291,  294. 
Prazimene,  a  French  romance,  157, 

1 60. 
Protector,  plot  against,  268,278  281. 

QUEEN,  the  (Henrietta  Maria),  130 

R.,  Cousin,  253. 

Race  meeting,  269. 

Reine  Marguerite,  63,  66. 

Rich,  Mr.  Charles,  and  Mrs.  Har- 
rison, 126,  130. 

Rich,  Lady  Diana,  42,  45,  48,  58, 
71,  74,  113,  117,  120,  125. 


320 


Index. 


Rich,  Lady  Isabella,  178,  180. 

Rich,  Lord,  229,  269. 

Ruthin,  Lady,  106, 107, 1 72, 2 19, 260. 

ST.  GREGORY'S,  252. 

St.  James's  Park,  239,  274. 

St.  John,  Lord,  270. 

St.  Malo,  142. 

Salisbury  House,  269. 

Sandys,  Lady,  265,  269. 

Say  and  Sele,  Lord,  see  Fiennes. 

Scott,  Major,  312. 

Seals,  fashion  of  collecting,  45,  46, 

57,  58,  133- 

Seymour,  Lady  Jane,  50,  51. 
Smith,  Mr.,  and  Lady  Sunderland, 

54,  57,  59,  66,  136,  238. 
Smith,  Dr.,  253. 
Somerset  House,  preaching  woman 

at ;  see  Trupnel. 

Spencers,  the  (two  brothers),  84. 
Spencer,  Robert,  Earl  of  Sunder- 
land, 106,  108. 
Spencer,  Robin,  274. 
Spencer,  Will,  274,  276. 
Spring  Gardens,  239,  271,  274. 
Stacy,  Nan,  77,  120,  162,  199,  200, 

227,  251.       . 
Stafford,    Mr.,     duel    with     Lord 

Chandos,  260. 
Stanley,  Mr.,  269. 
Strafford,  Lord,  200. 
Suffolk  House,  206. 
Sunderland,  Lady,    175  5    anc^   3ee 

Smith,  Mr. 
Sweden,  Queen  of,  her  kind  letter 

to  King  of  Scots,  225. 
Sydney,  Algernon,  58,  59,  84. 

TALBOT,  Mr.,  107. 

Talmash,  Lady,  277,  280,  281. 

Taylor,  Jeremy,  Holy  Living,  234, 

236. 
Temple,    Dorothy,    Sir    William's 

daughter,  letter  to  her  father,  314. 
Temple,  Cousin,  312. 


Temple  family,  the,  28,  29. 

Temple,  John,  Sir  William's  son, 
death  of,  315. 

Temple,  Lady,  310. 

Temple,  Sir  John,  Sir  William's 
father,  155. 

Temple,  Sir  William,  early  life, 
12-18  ;  account  of  his  family,  28, 
29  ;  journey  into  Yorkshire,  39  ; 
projected  journey  with  Swedish 
Embassy,  49,  70 ;  the  project 
abandoned,  109;  goes  to  Chick- 
sands,  February  1654,  216 ;  his 
religious  opinions,  242 ;  goes  to 
Ireland  to  join  his  father,  250 ; 
letter  of,  to  Dorothy,  262 ;  returns 
from  Ireland,  298. 

Theatricals  at  Sir  Thomas  Peyton's, 
294. 

Thornhill,  Colonel,  wife  of,  297. 

Three  Rings,  The,  308. 

Tournon,  Mdlle.  de,  sad  story  of,  66. 

Trupnel,  Mrs.  Hannah,  preaching 
woman,  243. 

Tufton,  Sir  John,  252. 

Tunbridge,  32. 

VALENTIA,  Lord,  daughter  of,  156. 
Valentine  customs,  239,  240. 
Vavasour,   Lady,  278;    carried   to 
the  Tower,  281. 

WALKER,  a  jeweller,  82,  105,  117, 

140,  143. 

Waller,  Mr.  Edmund,  161. 
Warwick,  Lord,  229. 
Wentworth,  Lady  Anne,  50, 52, 146. 
White  Hart,  the,  bySt.  James's,  274. 
Whitelocke,  Lord,  his  embassy  to 

Sweden,  186,  190. 
Williamson,  Mr.,  312. 
Witherington,  Mrs.,  269. 
Wotton,  Lady,  253. 

YELVERTON,  Sir  Christopher,  172. 
Yelverton,   Sir    Harry,  106,   168, 
his  marriage,  172. 


MORRISON   AND  GIBB,    EDINBURGH, 
PRINTERS   TO   HER   MAJESTY'S  STATIONERY  OFFICE 


IOOO — D — 1 2/1 


"DOROTHY  OSBORNE." 


EXTRACTS  FROM  REVIEWS. 

"We  have  no  hesitation  in  saying  that  Mr.  Parry  has 
rendered  a  real  service  to  English  literature  and  to  our 
acquaintance  with  the  seventeenth  century  in  revising  and 
publishing  this  complete  Edition.  The  letters  of  Lucy 
Hutchinson  we  have,  but  they  are  much  less  ingenuous  than 
hese  pages,  which,  though  they  cannot  be  termed  artless, 
have  yet  a  nameless  grace  and  freshness.  Mr.  Parry  is  evi- 
dently a  warm  admirer  of  the  young  Royalist  lady  who  had 
Henry  Cromwell  among  her  suitors,  and  who  lived  to  reckon 
Queen  Mary  of  England,  Princess  of  Orange,  among  her 
friends.  We  congratulate  Miss  Osborne  on  the  hands  into 
which  her  correspondence,  after  two  centuries,  has  fallen."- 
Edinburgh  Review,  October  1888. 

"  Every  reader  of  Lord  Macaulay's  Essays  knows  something 
of  Dorothy  Osborne.     But  we  have  to  thank  Mr.  Parry  and, 


2  Extracts  from  Reviews. 

still  more,  the  owner  of  Dorothy's  love  letters  for  enabling  us 
to  form  an  intimate  acquaintance  with  this  charming  woman, 
through  the  long  years  of  Sir  William  Temple's  courtship. 
.  .  .  We  have  only  space  left  to  observe  that  the  editor  of 
this  fascinating  volume  has  done  his  part  with  judgment,  and 
with  full  appreciation  of  his  heroine's  excellences.  The  infor- 
mation he  supplies  is  always  to  the  point,  and  the  reader  who 
is  not  intimately  acquainted  with  the  period  will  find  many  an 
allusion  explained  and  many  a  difficulty  removed,  for  which  he 
cannot  fail  to  be  grateful.  The  book,  moreover,  is  well  got 
up,  and  wins  the  reader  by  its  appearance  before  he  has  tested 
its  quality." — Spectator ;  May  26,  1888. 

"  Certainly  we  can  point  to  no  contemporary  book  in  which 
social  life  in  England  under  the  Commonwealth  is  so  fully 
described.  The  letters  are  far  more  than  billets-doux,  written, 
as  Macaulay  suggested,  by  a  virtuous,  amiable,  and  sensible 
girl,  and  intended  for  the  eye  of  her  lover  alone.  Dorothy 
Osborne  is  a  practical  philosopher,  with  a  keen  sense  of 
humour,  and  an  inexhaustible  fund  of  womanly  sympathy. 
She  does  not  disguise  her  love  for  Temple,  but  can  enjoy  a 
jest  at  his  expense.  Her  epistolary  style  is  remarkably  spirited, 
and  gives  her  letters  a  superior  place  in  English  literature  to 
that  occupied  by  the  memoirs  of  her  contemporaries,  Lucy 
Hutchinson  and  Lady  Fanshawe." — Athenaum. 

"  The  pleasant est  book  imaginable." — Saturday  Review. 


Extracts  from  Reviews.  3 

"  We  content  ourselves,  therefore,  with  saying  that  the  work 
is  one  of  the  most  fragrant  and  delightful  of  this  or  many 
previous  seasons,  and  that  Mr.  Parry's  editorial  functions  have 
been  discharged  in  admirably  competent  style.  His  explana- 
tions are  at  once  concise  and  adequate ;  his  prefatory  matter 
is  excellent  in  taste.  No  lover  of  books  will  care  to  be  without 
this  volume,  and  no  believer  in  womanhood  or  in  England  can 
be  other  than  thankful  for  an  introduction  to  Dorothy  Osborne." 
— Notes  and  Queries. 

"A  very  pleasing  and  interesting  volume,  more  than  bearing 
out  Macaulay's  encomium,  and  showing  how  the  young  ladies 
of  England  employed  themselves  two  hundred  and  thirty  years 
ago,  how  far  their  minds  were  cultivated,  what  were  their 
favourite  studies,  what  degree  of  liberty  was  allowed  to  them, 
what  use  they  made  of  that  liberty,  what  accomplishments  they 
most  valued  in  men,  and  what  proofs  of  tenderness  delicacy 
permitted  them  to  give  to  favoured  suitors.  Further,  they 
contain  the  story  of  the  romantic  attachment  in  which  love 
triumphed  over  as  many  obstacles  as  novelist  was  ever  able  to 
invent." — Literary  World. 

"  Her  letters  show  no  little  of  the  French  esprit,  which 
makes  the  charm  of  those  of  Madame  de  Sevigne*.  She  passes 
lightly  from  grave  to  gay.  She  strives  to  bear  up  with  cheerful 
serenity  against  the  sorrows  that  threaten  to  wreck  her  happi- 
ness ;  and  between  the  consolations  of  religion  and  an  un- 


4  Extracts  front  Reviews. 

pretentious  philosophy,  she  possesses  a  wonderful  constancy  of 
mind,  though  there  are  some  natural  slips  towards  despondency. 
The  letters,  whether  grave  or  gossipy,  are  always  easy  and 
agreeable  reading,  and  they  give  us  many  a  pleasant  glance  at 
the  manners  of  the  age  and  the  tone  that  prevailed  in  good 
country  society." — The  Times. 

"  If  we  want  to  teach  the  mothers  and  daughters  of  England 
self-respect,  we  turn  to  such  letters  as  those  of  a  gentlewoman 
of  the  days  of  Cromwell  for  an  example  of  all  that  makes 
nations  strong,  men  brave,  and  homes  happy.  To  read  them 
is  to  escape  into  a  purer  air.  Dorothy  Osborne  belongs  to  the 
galaxy  of  Shakspeare's  women." — Daily  News. 

"This  fresh  and  entertaining  volume,  it  may  be  added,  is 
produced  in  a  manner  that  should  satisfy  the  most  fastidious 
as  to  paper,  typography,  and  cover." — Morning  Post. 

"  There  have  been  few  books  of  letters  so  well  worth  read- 
ing."— Daily  Telegraph. 

"Mr.  Parry's  Letters  of  Dorothy  Osborne — letters  to  William 
(afterwards  Sir  William)  Temple  —  is  an  entirely  delightful 
book.  Lovers  of  sound  and  unpretentious  literary  workman- 
ship will  take  almost  as  much  pleasure  in  Mr.  Parry's  editing 
as  in  Dorothy's  writing." — Pall  Mall  Gazette. 


Extracts  from  Reviews.  5 

"  Rarely  has  a  more  charming  series  of  letters  been  pub- 
lished than  those  of  Dorothy  Osborne  to  her  future  husband, 
Sir  William  Temple.  They  are  love  letters  and  something 
more.  The  lady  was  gifted  not  only  with  a  delightful  literary- 
style, — a  style,  indeed,  far  more  readable  than  that  of  her  cele- 
brated husband, — but  she  also  possessed  an  acute  perception 
of  persons  and  circumstances.  She  was  by  turns  tender, 
serious,  wise,  gay,  and  satirical,  and  in  her  love  letters  all  these 
qualities  are  reflected." — Scotsman. 

"One  of  the  most  readable  books  of  the  season." — Liverpool 
Courier, 

"  The  present  handsome  and  careful  reprint  from  copies  of 
the  originals  is  therefore  very  welcome  indeed,  for  Dorothy 
Osborne  was  an  altogether  charming  person,  and  perhaps 
better  fitted  than  better-known  Englishwomen  to  represent 
England  in  the  great  feminine  art  of  letter-writing,  against 
the  tyrannous  supremacy  of  Madame  de  SeVigne,  Madame  de 
Maintenon,  and  other  mighty  epistolers  and  memoir  writers 
of  her  time  on  the  other  side  of  the  Channel." — Manchester 
Guardian. 

"This  charming   and   bright  addition  to  our  libraries. "- 
Manchester  Courier. 

"  Letters  which  cannot  but  prove  interesting  to  those  who 


6  Extracts  from  Reviews. 

care  to  know  the  social  habits  and  manners  of  our  forefathers, 
and  especially  to  the  people  of  Bedfordshire,  with  which 
county  the  life  of  Dorothy  Osborne  was  so  intimately  con- 
nected."— Bedfordshire  Standard. 

"'What  most  surprised  me  in  these  charming  letters 
(which  you  must  not  merely  order  from  the  library,  but  buy 
as  a  classic)  is  the  modernness  of  their  style,  sentiment,  and 
humour.  You  can  hardly  believe  you  are  reading  letters 
written  in  Cromwell's  day,  so  different  in  their  tone  and  style 
from  those  of  the  rugged,  harsh,  involved  letters  of  most  of 
her  Commonwealth  contemporaries." — Truth^  August  2,  1888. 

"  The  great  Macaulay  has  done  justice  to  this  very  charming 
young  woman, — modest,  generous,  affectionate,  intelligent,  and 
sprightly ;  but  the  world  has  never  before  had  so  good  an 
opportunity  of  judging  her  at  first-hand  as  in  these  letters, 
which  are  as  frank  and  simple  as  they  are  graceful  and 
amusing." — The  World. 

"The  charm  that  lingers  about  old  letters  is  very  subtle 
and  very  real.  They  retain  so  much  of  the  writer's  personality, 
and  bridge  over  long  centuries  as  if  they  were  only  months. 
Some  extracts  from  Dorothy  Osborne's  letters  saw  the  light 
when  Mr.  Courtenay  wrote  Sir  William  Temple's  life,  and  the 
keen  eye  of  Thomas  Babington  Macaulay  took  in  a  tolerable 
idea  of  her  life  and  character  when  he  wrote  the  review  of  it 


Extracts  from  Reviews.  7 

that  forms  one  of  his  famous  essays.  Mr.  Parry  has  done  his 
work  lovingly,  for  he  has  hunted  up  every  particular  that  throws 
light  on  Dorothy's  family,  friends,  and  home,  and  her  letters 
in  this  sympathetic  setting  form  quite  a  romance  of  real  life."— 
Vanity  Jfat'r,  May  26,  1888. 

"  The  book  should  prove  a  treasured  addition  to  the  library 
of  every  lady  who  can  appreciate  this  graphic  picture  of  a 
charming,  sprightly  dame  of  the  seventeenth  century." — The 
Lady's  Pictorial. 

"  They  form  a  valuable  addition  to  our  knowledge  of  the  life 
of  a  highly-connected  English  country  girl  nearly  two  centuries 
ago."—  The  Lady. 

"  When  we  read  these  letters,  collected  and  edited  as  a 
labour  of  love,  we  feel  that  Veloquence  du  billet  existed  in  the 
seventeenth  century  on  our  own  side  of  the  Channel,  and 
that  if  the  writer  had  been  for  many  years  separated  from  a 
daughter,  we  might  have  had  such  a  series  as  that  of  Madame 
de  Se"vigneV' — Guardian. 

"  As  a  picture  of  home  life  in  England  two  hundred  years 
ago,  it  is  highly  interesting,  portraying,  as  it  does,  all  those 
social  domestic  trivialities  to  which,  as  Macaulay  observes, 
historians  have  at  length  begun  to  give  their  right  value." — 
Church  Bells. 


8  Extracts  from  Reviews. 

"  We  cannot  be  surprised  at  the  success  which  has  attended 
the  publication  of  Letters  from  Dorothy  Osbornc  to  Sir 
William  Temple,  1652-54,  edited  by  E.  A.  Parry.  The 
letters  are  most  delightful  reading." — Publishers'  Circular. 

"  They  are  letters  of  extraordinary  merit.  Quaint  as  the 
language  seems  to  a  modern,  they  have  all  the  spirit  and  fresh- 
ness of  letters  written  only  yesterday.  They  would  be  worthy 
of  the  brightest  woman  this  generation  has  known — worthy  of 
George  Eliot  or  Jane  Welsh  Carlyle." — New  York  Times. 

"  As  a  record  of  a  few  years  of  a  young  woman's  life  in 
England  in  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth  century,  and  of  the 
contemporary  social  spirit,  the  collection  has  a  high  value,  and 
it  is  in  itself  an  addition  of  mark  to  the  list  of  English  bio- 
graphy. The  editing  has  been  performed  with  the  utmost 
fidelity  and  thoroughness,  with  excellent  judgment.  It  was  a 
labour  of  love,  and  the  devotion  of  the  editor  to  Dorothy's 
memory  has  a  personal  touch  which  adds  to  the  charm  of  the 
work."—  The  Nation. 


